


Homesick Yet, Darlin'?

by GalaxyThreads, Iaiunitas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Season/Series 12, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Wings, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Brothers, Castiel wing headcanon, Demon Powers, Everyone Needs A Hug, Family, Gen, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Injury, It Gets Worse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Mark of Cain after effects, Men of Letters British Branch (Supernatural), Men of letters are like S.H.I.E.L.D., Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 11, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Siblings, Psychic Sam Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Soulmates, Team Free Will Family, Team as Family, Torture, Trauma, Trauma From Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, Withdrawal, alternate universe - The Darkness doesn't bring back Mary, headcanons abound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 88,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26767333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyThreads/pseuds/GalaxyThreads, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iaiunitas/pseuds/Iaiunitas
Summary: When Dean arrives back at the Bunker after Amara, it's to a distinct lack of Sam and Cas. When Sam wakes up, miles away, it's to the realization that the Men of Letters are not just librarians, and he and Cas are in deep water now. (No slash, no smut) Series of connected prompts for whumptober 2020.Based off prompts foundhere.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, team free will - Relationship
Comments: 76
Kudos: 198





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've never done a Whumptober before. I'm not doing this officially or anything, but the prompts are public, so, here we are, haha. I'm not one to write drabbles, hence why this is a fully fledged connected fic. Prompts will be listed at the bottom of the page to avoid spoilers.
> 
> Disclaimer: Nada.
> 
> Warnings: Whump, torture, angst, mental health issues, implied/referenced suicidal thoughts, trauma from Lucifer's cage, trauma, PTSD, general whump and pain. Language is all K. No slash, no smut, no non-con, no incest.
> 
> Parings: None.
> 
> For your information, this story is cross-posted on Fanfiction.Net under the penname of "LodestarJumper." 
> 
> Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)

* * *

Consciousness is slow to come. There's no jerking, gasping moment where he snaps his head up and has perfect clarity and memory about what happened. No violent struggle. Instead, it's rather like sitting up after falling inside of thick, black tar. Leaching slowly off of him, and aching as it does so.

It smells like blood, bleach, and faintly of some sort of herb. Maybe mint...no, ginger.

Not the Bunker, then. It's had a phantom lavender smell underneath the older paper that's refused to abate since they found it; the lavender that he's never been able to discern a source for.

The Bunker. Why does that…?

The ringing of a gun echoes in his ears, a strangled noise and the pinprick of something digging into his neck. Then the slow descent towards the ground in a flurry of murky blackness as Cas drew his sword and went after…what? What did he…?

There was a woman there. English, blonde, thin. Tana...Tiff...Toni. Bevell, wasn't it?

Cas went after her. With his blade. But she did...something and then Cas stopped and dropped. Not a banishment, or Holy Fire. Almost like a devil's trap. And he didn't get up. Sam doesn't remember seeing him move again before he passed out.

Sam shakes his head, trying to clear his murky thoughts. Bring the strings of them together and knot them.

The Darkness. Chuck. The bar with Rowena and Crowley, waiting for the sun to come out, while silently hoping it wouldn't. But it did, which means that Dean is…and…

It hurts to think. His head is aching, his tongue twisted up somewhere in his throat and stuck there. His mouth is dry, and tastes faintly of blood. He thinks he bit the inside of his cheek when he fell, but he's not sure. The taste is bitter, but familiar enough that he doesn't grimace at it.

He needs water. The air is almost humid. His bangs are sticking to his forehead, his clothing pressed against his skin and clinging.

Why would... _think, you idiot,_ he admonishes himself. He's not in the Bunker, Toni shot him with a tranquillizer, Cas had...whatever that was, and Dean is dead. He has to pull himself together. Figure out what the heck is going on, and then do something about it.

Because that's what he's supposed to do. What he's always done. Problem after problem.

Sam feels exhausted. He doesn't want to move. Part of him just wants to sit here (because he is sitting, slumped, against something hard) and stop fighting. But he doesn't. If Cas is in this fiasco, then Sam has to get him out of it. He won't do that by thinking.

If they hurt him...

Sam pulls his eyes open with effort, and has to squint when the world goes hazy. It's gray and not much else. The lighting is blazing. They're fluorescent tubes with all of the bulbs functioning, surprisingly. One set is placed over a giant mirror he suspects is double sided, and a glance inside of it reveals the same lighting behind him on the far wall, a few feet from the door.

It looks like a police interrogation room, but bigger. There's a metal table place in front of him, welded to the floor. Pooled beneath it is a old, brown stain that looks suspiciously like blood.

Looking down makes him realize he can see his feet. His bare feet. His toes curl unconsciously in reaction, and he tries to jerk his leg to cover them beneath the chair, but only succeeds in bringing pain shooting up from his ankle. Raw metal is digging into what flesh it can there, covering the edge of his jeans.

Not hopeful, Sam tugs lightly on his arms. They're pulled taut behind his back. Handcuffs, by the feel, and some sort of leather restraint on his biceps to the upper part of the metal chair. His jacket is also missing, leaving him only in his bare white undershirt.

Okay.

This is...it's not great, but not the first time he's been held captive. Or restrained to a chair. Or even in a police interrogation, though he strongly suspects that isn't what this is. It's fine. He's fine. He's not bleeding from anywhere as far as he can tell, his head only hurts a little, and there's no meathooks or bone chilling cold, so Sam will take his wins where he can.

Sam breaths out stiffly, inhaling the humid air, raising his head up from the ground.

Wet strands of hair fall forward lightly, and trying to toss them from his eyes doesn't do much beyond make them cling harder, or move into a position that's more in the way.

Sam gives up, and does a visual sweep of the room again. Empty save the desk, and the chair on the other side. It, like the table, is welded to the floor, and Sam suspects the one he's pinned to is no different. Pity. Wooden frames are breakable.

His bones feel heavy; it's a weird realization to come to. Probably the tranquilizer wearing off. How long has it been since he was knocked out? Where _is_ he? This isn't the Bunker. Where is Toni? She said she was from the Men of Letters. The London chapter. London would have to be what? Ten, eleven hours from Kansas a minimum?

If this even is England.

Given his location, he's not in a position to be confirming any guesses.

Sam licks his dry lips. He spots a security camera in the far left corner and pins his gaze to it, keeping his expression blank. He shifts, restless, fiddling with his hands. There's nothing but the smooth metal, no paperclips, no loose nail to jam into the lock. Even if he broke his thumbs and slid out, the ties on his biceps are in too awkward a position to break or wiggle from.

He needs someone to give him an opening.

He's not going to make one himself.

_Someone come and talk to me._

(" _You used to love to talk,"_ Lucifer sighs in the recess of his mind. A dark, private corner he tries desperately to ignore. " _I just feel like we've lost that connection. Say something, would you, Sammy?")_

Sam shakes off the thoughts—not here, not now, not ever—breathes in the stuffy, ginger-tined stale air, and keeps his gaze focused on the camera. The walls aren't painted. Concrete; metal plating around the edges of the mirror to keep it up. The floor slants slightly in, leading towards a small metal-plated drain in the center, beneath the table. Maybe six inches by fourteen.

The floor is warm beneath his skin. Sam wishes they'd at least left him his socks. He feels awkwardly exposed without them.

Sam blinks. Stares. Breathes.

Shifts his wrists, the metal cutting into the sensitive flesh. Blood drips down to his palms, smearing all over his fingers. His shoulders begin to ache from the held position. His entire body starts throbbing dully, wishing for movement.

Minutes pass, an hour. Time slips. A blur, a drag, Sam's not sure. The heat makes it hard to think, and the longer he sits there waiting for someone, the worse the blurring gets. His headache begins to pound rather than flutter, and his throat feels like swollen sandpaper from lack of water.

Why is it so hot? Are they trying to make a point?

His head dips, chin settling on his chest. Damp hair hangs in front of his face. He keeps his eyes open, staring at the floor. The grate and the bloodstains. He swallows, spit a thin trickle down his warm throat. _What I would do for water..._

He thinks it's another hour before the door behind him sounds loudly as several locks are pulled open. He jerks, head whipping up and behind, twisting as far as his position will allow. It's pointless. There's a giant _mirror_ in front of him.

The door is pushed, and two figures step in. The one with the key is Toni, and she pulls it from the door smoothly. It's big and blocky, not like a house key. He's not even sure what lock of the three that it's for.

Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Tan pants, black suit coat. A clipboard, of all things, clutched in one hand. She slides the key into her coat's front left pocket.

The person with her is a man. Dark hair, stubble, also in a suit, weirdly soulful eyes. He's holding nothing, but there's the bulk of a gun tucked at his side. Sam breathes in through his nose sharply, and realizes he'd been dangerously close to panting before they entered.

If the two are affected by the room's temperature, they make no indication.

Toni's heels clack against the ground loudly in the empty space as she walks towards him. Sam watches her progress in the mirror until he can trace her movement with his head. She takes a seat in the chair in front of him, shifting only once in discomfort, and rests her clipboard down on the table between them. Sam's stomach muscles tighten and his hands clench into fists as he sees that hidden behind the hardboard is a plastic waterbottle.

The label says Highland Spring, which isn't a company Sam is familiar with.

Toni sets the waterbottle to the left of her clipboard, and Sam hates as his eyes follow her hand. It feels intentional. A threat disguised as an absent movement.

The man settles himself behind Toni's chair, arms folded across his chest. Sam catches the edge of his gun tucked inside his waistband. His stare is piercing. Sam pulls away, returning his attention to Toni as she straightens the papers out on the clipboard, picks up a ballpoint pen and clicks the tip, then looks up at him and smiles.

Her eyes are ice behind long, dark lashes.

"Mr. Winchester," she says, tone short, "we have much to discuss and so little time, I'm afraid. This is my associate, Mick Davies, also Men of Letters, London Chapterhouse." She gestures vaguely with her pen towards her dark-haired companion, and Sam lets his eyes settle on the man again. Davies doesn't bother to hide that he's staring.

Davies's head tips slightly. He nods in acknowledgement, lips pushed together in displeasure.

Sam swallows, but there's little vapor in his mouth. His eyes flick towards the waterbottle despite himself, and a deep, quiet desire of _need_ washes through him. "You say that," he has to stop and retain some moisture from the crevices of his tongue in order to finish the croaky sentence, "like it's supposed to mean something to me."

It does. Vaguely. He thinks he remembers reading some transactions about the Men of Letters of Kansas talking with associates in London. Chapterhouse was like a...department or something. He doesn't really remember, that was during the Trials, and he could barely stop himself from throwing up half the time, let alone read to retain.

Toni's eyebrows lift. "As a Legacy, and a current inhabitant of one of our only midwestern locations in the Colonies, I'd assumed that you'd have come across us by now. It _has_ been four years, hasn't it?"

It unsettles him, that she's aware of how long they've lived there, almost like an itch. Sam lifts his lips up, trying for cocky. It feels flat, and dry somehow. His voice is hoarse, "No. Reading's not a hobby of mine."

Seeming annoyed, Toni taps her pen once on the paper hard, electing a sharp _clack_ from the board on the back. "I see. Well, we don't have time and I the patience for a department history." That's the second time she's mentioned a time limit. What exactly is her deadline for? "I'll make this as simple as I can, Mr. Winchester. Quid pro quo. You answer some of my questions, and I'll let you have some of this water." Her head tips towards the bottle. Highland Springs glints in the light cheerfully.

Sam's teeth grit when his first, instinctive response is _yes, what do you want to know? Give it to me._

He bites on the side of his tongue. Forces his hands to relax from the tight fists in an effort to pull himself together. _You've endured worse,_ he reminds himself, _much worse. A waterbottle isn't going to break you._

Besides, they seem to want him alive, if only to answer their questions. They won't let him die of dehydration. The maximum amount of time the average human body can sustain itself without water is a few days. He has time. Days are nothing.

He lifts his eyes to her. "I'm sorry—you kidnap me, chain me to a chair, and now you want me to _help_ you?"

"Well, yes."

Sam shakes his head, barely withholding a scoff. " _No."_

Toni's smile becomes strained. She nods to herself and pulls the water back, twisting off the cap and taking a long drink from it. His tongue shifts behind his teeth, insisting unhappiness.

Toni sets the water bottle down, half full, and wipes the water from the edges of her lips. "I think," she says slowly, like she's speaking to a child, "that you misunderstand the situation, Sam. You're not here because we admire how much you muck up everything. You're here because we've done our research."

Something cold knots itself in his stomach. He feels his lips raise, stretching up, "Yeah? That so?"

Toni nods. Her smile falls, expression becoming neutral. "I must admit I'm disappointed. I _had_ been hoping to speak to your brother about the Mark of Cain."

The heat seems to be ripped from him, like a fist reaching up and yanking down. He feels cold from his ears to his toes. Both in the memory of the violence, the pain, and the grief that threatens to bow him. Dean is gone. He's not going to come in here, weapons blazing. He's not going to smile again, or fess over the Impala, or make a stupid joke, or stare over Sam's shoulder at the laptop, or be there, or _breathe._

Sam doesn't even know where his body is. Part of him is relieved, even as much as he hates himself for it. He doesn't want to bury him again.

His first, base instinct is to snap at her. He keeps his lips clamped together. Toni's expression flickers, smug, like she's realized she's touched at a sore spot. She pushes her pen down on the paper, "Well, it's not like we won't have plenty to talk about in the meantime. We will need to discuss your relationship with the demon Ruby in detail, of course, and we _would_ love to know how you and your brother got angels down to Earth for the first time in centuries."

Sam's teeth press together harder. _Cas..._ He doesn't let her continue, "Where's Cas? What did you do to him? I swear to God, if you've hurt him…"

Toni's eyes glaze with annoyance, but she does scribble something down on her paper. Three sharp letters. Her voice is still calm. Even. He wishes she would differ in pitch, if only so she didn't seem so lifeless. "What are you going to do to me, Mr. Winchester? You're restrained to a chair."

Sam pulls his lips against his teeth, agitated. He shifts his wrists, scraping them against the metal. Blood trickles down to his fingers. "You say you know me. You think these are going to hold for long?"

"We do." Davies says. Accent also English, but voice higher than he thought it would be. Sam lets his gaze settle on the man as he shifts out of his cross-armed position. "Your angel is here, Mr. Winchester. I don't think you'll be leaving without him." Sam's jaw bunches, and his eyes want to skirt away, but he forces them not to. "Even if you do get out of those chains, you'll have nowhere to go."

The truth of those words makes his body stiffen. He's not going to leave without Cas. _Where is he? What did you do?_ He wants to demand. But Cas is the carrot, and they aren't swinging the stick his way.

"Where are we?" Sam asks, changing the topic as advertently as he can. "This isn't the Bunker."

"No." Toni concedes. She pushes her pen against the top of the paper, scraping a smooth line down. "You're not the one asking questions, Mr. Winchester. We are. We want to know all the names of hunters that you know." _Why?_ Sam wants to laugh. _They're all dead._ "We want to know how you and your brother manage to make such messes without fail. What you know about Angels. The Demon Trials."

Sam's teeth grit together.

"Personally," Toni leans in here, forearms resting on the table, "I'm interested about why all the demons we've talked to call you the Boy King."

_Devoveo._

"I'm not, I don't," Sam fumbles for a moment. Words scratch his throat as they come up. It's been a long time since he heard that term. But not long enough. Never, never long enough. He bloodies his wrists as he fumbles with his hands desperately for a moment.

Toni leans back, smooths her paper. "I'm afraid that's all we have time for at the moment. We'll be back, of course. Soon. Couldn't leave you without introductions. Think about our questions."

Although their presence has grated at him, the sudden idea of them leaving makes him nauseous. With them gone, it's just him, the heat, and his head. "Wait. You're...you. Cas. Is he okay?"

Toni looks like she could care less, but Davies takes some pity on him. "For now. When he wakes up, we'll see how much that changes."

 _You knocked him unconscious!?_ A wave of cold, whispering fear washes through him. As an angel, he can only count on one hand the amount of times he's seen Cas actually unconscious.

"Leave him out of this," Sam says. He doesn't know if it's a command or a plea. "You want to pin the Apocalypse, and the Leviathans and the Darkness on me? Fine, I get it, heck, I deserve it, but Cas doesn't have—"

The backhand takes him by surprise. He bites sharply on his cheek, and the plume of blood that trickles down his throat is a relief. _Moisture,_ his tongue sings happily, _more,_ his throat begs. He blinks in surprise, lifting his head back to the woman.

Toni's words are cold. "You don't get to bargain, you don't get to plead. You have no say in this. We own you, Sam Winchester, and I would suggest you get used to that fact."

(" _You know we're one in the same, bunk buddy. I own that meatsuit of yours. It's been mine since your conception.")_

Sam looks up at her, then Davies, then her again. "Screw you."

Toni gives a half smirk, like she's amused, and moves towards the door, waving her partner after her. Sam watches their departure through the mirror. The door slams closed, leaving him alone in the silence and humidity. Sam tries to ignore how it feels like she's sealed the lid on a coffin.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Waking up Restrained.
> 
> I'm gonna try and do this daily, but we'll see how long lasts. :)
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts if you're comfortable with that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support! :)
> 
> Warnings: PTSD.

When Sam manages to pass out, he's more thankful than he cares to say.

Pain is always worse when he wakes, but for the brief stretch of all-consuming black that he's _not there,_ it's worth it. Experience has taught him that the faster he can lose consciousness, the better. So when the faint hum of sleep envelopes him in a warm embrace, Sam keeps himself there for as long as he can.

For a while, he just drifts. In, out. Out, in. Like he's testing water to see how cold it is.

Footsteps walk around him. Someone says something.

Sam passes out again.

He's not sure if it's the sound of the door opening that awakens him, or the backhand. Maybe some mixture of the two.

The world blurs strangely, flaring white and black all at once. He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw bunching, and tries to get everything to settle into one image. Sam squints his eyes open. The light feels too bright, and the headache is pounding against his skull; grinding against bone to announce itself.

Toni is leaning in front of him. She's wearing a different pair of clothing. Same style, just...not black. Red. That color is red. Toni nods once to herself, as if Sam's eyes opening was all the confirmation that she needed that he's not dead.

He feels like he could be. It's a familiar feeling.

Toni sets a new Highland Springs water bottle on the table.

His stomach twists and his throat burns. _No,_ he tells himself firmly.

Toni doesn't go around the table. Instead, she leans a hip against his side, balancing the clipboard against her stomach. Her proximity makes him lean further back into the chair, trying to get away from her. His shoulders ache, his entire back is strangely numb. The pen clicks. It seems to echo. Sam releases a ragged, hoarse noise. He thinks it was supposed to be a breath.

"Three names." Toni says, then nods towards the table. "American hunters, and you can have it."

Water. His gaze pins on it.

Names. Hunters. Does he even _know_ three living hunters by name? Charlie's dead. So is Bobby, Jefferson, Caleb, Jo, Ellen. Pastor Jim. Kev—

Living...she didn't...she didn't _say_ they had to be living. Did she? He...it's hard to think. His thoughts don't feel coherent. Random jumbles attempting to pass as connected.

His vision swims. He thinks he's going to be sick. He should hold out for longer. He parts dry lips. He doesn't know how long he's been here, but it doesn't feel like long enough. _I should have lasted longer. I should have...have...what?_

A thought occurs, and he feels ridiculous: _You can lie._ Names and aliases swirl inside his head.

"Jimmy." He manages to croak out. His voice is barely a whisper. "Page."

Toni smirks faintly, looking pleased. She scribbles the name down on the paper. Slight relief makes his shoulders drop when she doesn't immediately call him out on the lie. "Ron McGovney...An...Angus Young."

Toni adds them to her list. "Excellent." She takes the water bottle off the table. Sam's eyes track it. She twists off the cap and shifts, resting her clipboard on the table. Without a word of warning, she lifts the bottle to his lips almost violently.

Unprepared, water sloshes down his chin before he manages to get a grip. It's warm, but he doesn't care. His toes curl with frustration and humiliation against the concrete, and his hands clench. Toni pulls away after a few seconds. _Not enough. Not enough, not—_

The water swirls in his stomach almost immediately, and Sam coughs harshly, spitting it back up. It's pink. That doesn't...seem right. Bile builds on his tongue, acid teetering at the edge of his throat. The dry heaves are violent and sudden; painful. He hasn't eaten since before he got here ( _how long, how long, how long—?)._

Toni swears under her breath, moving forward. She seems surprised, as if she honestly didn't expect that depriving him of water for hours (days?) in a humid room wouldn't end badly. He wants to laugh, or snort. His body is a little preoccupied with tearing itself apart.

Her hand is cold when it presses against his forehead, and he flinches back from it. Is she...is she taking his _temperature?_ Really?

The world sways.

The familiar, alluring blackness haunts the edge of his vision, and Sam doesn't fight against it.

His head tips, only stopping when Toni grabs his chin and forces him to look up at her. "You're supposed to have better endurance than this," she gropes. He coughs once, gagging on blood and bile. Blood. _Why is there blood?_ Is he bleeding internally?

Wouldn't that be terrible? The thought is bland.

Toni shakes him. He lolls. "Stay awake."

He manages a faint smile. He lifts his heavy eyes up to hers and coughs out, "No."

Then he succumbs to the black again.

000o000

" _You're a cockroach, you know that, Squirrel?_ " Crowley sounds annoyed. Dean grits his teeth at it. The age old, familiar urge to stab the demon between the eyes washes through him momentarily. He breathes out through his nose, forcing himself not to shout or react.

"Hi to you too." He manages, playing pleasantries because he has to, not because he wants to.

" _I swear,"_ Crowley continues like he didn't say anything, " _every time I get hopeful that you'll finally be gone for good, you manage to pull off some sort of death—defying stunt and prove why I loathe the lot of you."_

 _Yeah, well,_ Dean's mind supplies darkly, _you're hardly the only one disappointed._

Dean's fist clenches around the rim of the table top, the edge digging into his palm. The scent of old blood lingers in his nostrils, burning up and in like an acid. He doesn't want to talk. He doesn't want to explain. Doesn't even have the words to begin to describe what it felt like to see Amara and Chuck reunite and reconcile.

It was four days ago, but it feels like years.

"I don't have time for your crap," Dean interrupts, and releases the table, flexing his fingers out. They ache from how hard he was gripping it. "Where are Sam and Cas?"

He can't imagine them going anywhere else but the Bunker; not unless they intended to make some sort of bargain. _Please don't let them have been that stupid._ The last time the duo went on a rescue mission, they released Amara. He doesn't know how much worse it could get beyond her, but they always find something.

An apocalypse, then the Leviathans, then the Darkness. Always, always, _something._

Crowley is silent a moment. Dean's tongue wrings around inside his mouth, unhappy. " _Crowley_."

" _You_ lost _them?"_ The demon sounds genuinely surprised. Dean closes his eyes for a moment, the slight flame of hope flickering out, smothered. It was stupid to believe that Sam or Cas would share travel plans with Crowley in the first place.

Still.

The Impala is in the garage, and all the cars are accounted for, even Cas's piece of junk. If they left, it was on foot.

"They're not answering their phones. I can't find them."

Crowley snorts in a way that's almost self deprecating, " _And you think they're sending me postcards?_ Me?"

"Do you know where they are or not?" Dean demands through gritted teeth. _Answer the question. Stop playing with me,_ he leaves unsaid.

" _I don't_ ," Crowley admits. " _If I were to make a gander, I'd say off to save your sorry soul. It's about time for another world-ending disaster, isn't it?"_

Dean can't repress the flinch. He thinks about Amara, and Chuck, and the waves of power that both of them radiated as they surged up towards the sky. It was sickening. He'd spent the better part of the following hour dry heaving and unable to stop sobbing, though not by choice.

He doesn't know why he was surprised. Angels tried to smite Amara, and he couldn't get within a hundred feet. Catching even a small glint of the overwhelming energy aftershocks of the two would have been enough to flatten anyone.

Dean sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek. As if Crowley is innocent of _any_ of that. But it doesn't matter. (It does.) He didn't call to shout. He called to get answers, and Crowley doesn't have them.

"Fine. If you hear from either of them, let me know." Dean demands.

" _Ha."_ Crowely intones, then hangs up. Dean holds the device pressed against the side of his face for a moment, fingers curled and taut, before he pulls it away and stares at the black screen. Okay. _Okay, okay._ He runs a hand through his messy hair and sets the phone down on the table with a clatter.

It lays beside Sam's open laptop, humming softly in the silence of the Bunker. Dean found it stuffed in the back of the Impala yesterday. That was a few hours after he got here and realized that his brother and Cas weren't present.

He shakes his head lightly once, holding a palm flat against his eyes. His breath comes out as something like a low shudder.

 _Pull yourself together,_ he demands of himself sharply. _This is hardly the worst thing you've faced._

But everytime, _everytime,_ one of them drops off the map, it ends badly. Sam shooting up an empty warehouse comes to mind. Or Cas opening Purgatory. _Branding yourself with the Mark of Fratricide?_ Offers a snide voice in the back of his head.

"Okay," Dean murmurs, opening his eyes and pulling his hand away so he can stare at the laptop screen. He's already tried the GPS on both Sam and Cas's phones, but neither are producing a signal. The last known location is somewhere north outside of Lebanon. Which isn't helpful, because that's where it always says they are when they're in the Bunker. Magical warding and all that.

If they _did_ go to try some sort of idiotic deal, where would that put them? There wasn't a contingency plan.

They were supposed to be _here._

Dean blows out a breath between his teeth, opening another tab. He pulls up recent news stories, looking for both something unusual and any mention of his sibling or the angel. He snorts darkly when he realizes that they're calling Chuck's near-death experience an "an unexpected total solar eclipse."

Which Dean privately finds ridiculous. Sure, something that takes the _Moon_ moving into proper position and can easily be tracked by NASA or frickin' telescope. That makes sense. What, NASA lost track of the Moon for a couple hours? _Oops, our bad?_

 _People see what they want to,_ Dean remembers John saying to him when he was in his teens.

He doesn't find anything obvious within half an hour and gives up. He picks up his phone again. None of the few hunters he still has tentative contact with have responded with any confirmation of Sam or Cas' location. Or a negative.

Jody has responded. _No. You want me to put out a BOLO?_

Dean opens the messages with Sam, scrolling up for a moment and looking at the long myriad of his texts from the last few days. He started texting once he managed to get a signal after Amara and Chuck took off.

 _Txt me._ Dean sends. _Call. Smethng._

The message hovers for a moment, before a small _sent_ lingers underneath the words. He waits, but nothing happens. No response, as he's come to expect. Sam remains MIA. Dean pulls on his lower lip with his teeth, shaking his head once. He hates radio silence. He hates _silence._

But he's not stupid. Four days, no answers, and the only conclusion he can come to is that neither Sam, or Cas, are keeping the quiet by choice. He opens his messages with Cas, equally silent, and wishes desperately that Cas would text him some sort of emoji. The idiot is obsessed.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard before he turns off the phone and sets it down on the table. He pushes his nails into his palms.

"Cas," Dean whispers into the stillness of the Bunker, and the prayer feels like admittance of defeat, "wherever you are, you better be together and alive. Because if either of you died, I will make your afterlife utterly miserable, you got that?"

000o000

When Sam is thrown into the room, Castiel barely manages to grab hold of his arms to keep him from tumbling to the floor. His grip feels slippery and strangely flimsy, enough that Castiel struggles to keep him upright. Sam's weight is heavy against him, and he doesn't resist. Sam's head smacks against his chest, and he moans lowly in his throat.

His skin is almost painful to touch with heat, but he isn't sweating. Dehydration, dangerously so. When was, Castiel wonders darkly, the last time they have him water?

Castiel lifts his gaze up to the doorway, letting his displeasure be known on his face. The humans are unphased, expressions impassive. There was a time, Castiel remembers, that the presence of an angel was enough to drive them to a panicked frenzy. There is a reason _fear not_ is in their Bible three hundred and sixty-five times.

They could care less at his displeasure. Castiel's charred wings shift restlessly behind him at his annoyance to this fact.

A woman steps between the two bulky men. Blonde. He's seen her before. Spoken with her. She calls herself Toni Bevell.

"Do something. Heal him." She demands.

_Ha._

Castiel could laugh. It threatens to bubble out of him, bitter and vindictive, but he keeps it stuffed inside his throat, only tightening his grip on Sam's biceps when the younger Winchester shifts restlessly at the sound of her voice.

He needs to lower Sam to the ground, let his body rest. Less exertion, even if he's only standing, would be ideal. But he's reluctant to put the man in such a vulnerable position with their captors watching, and close enough to hurt.

He licks dry lips, and parts them, letting the sound grate out of him harshly, "And how, exactly, do you expect me to do that, Miss Bevell?"

He watches the woman's gaze flick down to his throat for a brief moment, and feels oddly gratified when her nostrils flare with brief frustration. Her hand shifts, and Castiel notices the paper shopping bag for the first time since she stepped up.

Castiel lifts his eyes up to her face for a moment, waiting.

"We're not stupid, angel," she says, teeth clicking as she grits her jaw. "And neither are you. As such," she tosses the paper bag towards him. It lands with a loud clatter a few feet away, teetering before tipping on its side. Several items roll out, one of which is a plastic water bottle. It brushes against his bare foot. "You better hope you're first aid skills are at least adequate."

_What?_

Sam's head shifts lightly, and Castiel adjusts his stance, wishing he could offer comfort rather than force Sam to stay on his feet. He feels incredulous. He's not part of the Rit Zien. "I'm an _angel,_ ignoramus git."

"We're well aware," Miss Bevell assures, tone even.

His throat feels tight. He forces his jaw to loosen somewhat, if only so he can get the words past his lips. "He's severely dehydrated. If you want to help him and obviously aren't going to let me, _take him to a hospital."_

Miss Bevell's eyes are cold, mouth tight, "My superiors disagree. Oh—don't look surprised, this wasn't my idea, I rather disagreed with it. If he dies, he dies. We still have you. Our journey won't have been a complete loss."

Castiel presses his vessel's teeth together harder. The numbing, panicked feeling of being thrown into unconsciousness washes through him. He shakes it off, because he doesn't have time to dwell on it. He shouldn't dwell on it.

_(He didn't even know it was possible.)_

He lifts his chin up, defiant, "Take him to a hospital."

Miss Bevell tips her chin up, and the man backs up. She follows, and without another word, the two exit the room, pulling the door closed behind them. It buzzes loudly as it locks. Castiel waits until he can hear her footsteps join another pair in the distance before he dares to inhale again.

He pulls his lips against his teeth and slowly lowers Sam to the floor of the small cell. There's a bench to his left he thinks is supposed to pass for a bed, but Sam's too tall for it to be comfortable.

Castiel pulls the bag towards himself, grabbing the bottle of water that escaped as well. Inside of the bag there's a basic first-aid kit placed on top of six water bottles and something blue and cold to the touch. It takes him a second to remember the name: Icepack.

Castiel pulls his gaze back to Sam. His face is washed of color, pale but flushed all at once. His long hair is soaked, pinned against his face. Just above his elbows are faint yellow bruises that look like he was strapped against something. His wrists and hands are a mess of blood and cuts.

What, Castiel wonders, exactly did they _do?_

Sam's head shifts, face lining with pain, and Castiel presses a hand on his forehead, trying to settle him. He frowns at the heat, and looks back at the bag, uncertain where to begin. Human medical care is something he's become unfortunately familiar with since pulling Dean from the Pit. That doesn't, however, mean he's actually skilled in it.

Dean. Castiel's lips twist unhappily and a low, aching pain settles in his stomach. The burn of grief threatens to bow him, but he forces himself forward. Past the loss, past the pain, everything. Sam needs him now, he doesn't have time to mourn.

 _(There's never time to mourn,_ a quiet voice murmurs in the back of his mind.)

The absence of his grace burns inside his limbs like an amputation. He wishes, desperately, that he could fix this with a push of his fingers to Sam's forehead. He doesn't get that choice.

Castiel reaches inside the bag and pulls out the ice pack, lifting up Sam's head for a moment and settling it against the back of his neck. As he's fumbling with the cap of the water bottle, Castiel notices that Sam's eyes are half lidded.

He stops his actions. "Sam," he says, "can you hear me?"

Sam's jaw works for a moment before he croaks, "Yeah." His voice makes Castiel suppress a wince. There's a hesitation, "...Cas?"

"Yes." Castiel confirms.

Sam's eyes push open a fraction further, unfocused hazel sweeping up and down, searching for something. His gaze lingers on Castiel's neck and he frowns. "What…?" his hand tries to lift, but fails. "You're…why're..."

Castiel suppresses a grimace. His hand lifts unconsciously to the collar, and runs the familiar length of the metal. He can sense his grace there, pinned inside the device and squirming with discomfort. He can't feel the pain, for which he's quietly grateful. "It restrains my grace." He admits. _I am utterly useless now,_ he leaves unsaid.

Sam's eyes flicker with brief, tired anger.

Castiel represses a sigh and pushes Sam's head back down. He goes without a fight, which concerns him. "You need to keep still. You're sick. You—" he stops mid-sentence, something like a strangled noise pushing from him as the prayer pushes through his mental walls. Without his grace, it's jarring and painful, enough to make him grip the sides of his head. He'd forgotten what it felt like to listen without his grace acting as a buffer. He's been pushing the prayers to his subconscious where they'd be quieter and less intrusive for a long time.

The words are brief and angry, but Castiel can hear the undertone of worry. He barely catches himself when the words finish, and when he opens his eyes, Sam is trying to sit up.

"Ca...Cas?"

"Dean?" Castiel whispers out loud without intending to, squinting through the pain, confused, and relieved. _He's alive,_ Castiel realizes, _he's_ _alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are so tiny. Oh my gosh. (For those of you unaware, my normal chapter length is like 6-9K.)
> 
> Prompt: Collars


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: PTSD, some violence.

* * *

For a second, he's pretty sure he misheard, but the pain in Cas's face and the open relief that he sees there says otherwise. Sam feels his eyes go wide. "Wh-what?"

Dean.

Dean is _alive?_

He doesn't breathe for a long second. Then air comes pushing out of him. Sam blinks through the haze, trying to focus on Cas' murky form. The lighting is terrible. Maybe it's just him. He's not sure, and doesn't have the energy to care.

"He…" Cas seems disoriented, fingers still pushed against the sides of his head like he's trying to keep his skull together. It reminds him absurdly of his visions, and something like nausea swirls in his stomach at that. Cas shakes his head a few times, squeezes his eyes shut, "He just prayed to me."

The little distance he'd made in pushing himself up is lost as his relief makes him sag, then topple when he can't keep pushing himself up on his elbow. He grimaces, faint pain letting itself be known as his head smacks against the ground.

The sound causes Cas's eyes to pop back open. "Sam?"

 _Devoveo._ He feels awful. Stretched thin and squished tight all at once. He's soaked, and the cold pushed against his neck is jarring. The fact that he can _breathe_ in this room is, too. (At least it wasn't hypothermia. Nothing gelid. No bitter, bone-aching cold.)

Cas's palm rests on his head, fingers cold. His teeth press together at the sensation. Cas's lips pull down in a frown and he turns his head, reaching for something. Paper rustles, and Sam's brow draws together in confusion before he catches the glimpse of a water bottle in his peripheral vision.

_Oh man._

_Water._

"That's...good." He murmurs. He wonders for a second why he said that, then remembers about Dean. That _is_ good. Dean isn't dead. Dean isn't…He knew that. He's known that since they walked away from the bar. Known, but not wanted to acknowledge.

When Dean died after selling his soul, Sam felt like something had been physically torn from him. The burn followed him for the weeks that followed, an absence. A void. That just...wasn't there. The same feeling followed in the Mystery Spot, and even Purgatory.

He can…can _feel_ Dean die. Always has. Something he's never been brave enough to voice, or ask about. And that...didn't happen this time. It didn't because...Dean's...something. He's not. No. He's not something? Is. Isn't? Both?

He's tired. Sleep hovers at the edge of his consciousness. Awaiting, as it has been since he woke up here. Always ready for him and dreamless, something that's foreign to the point it's almost uncomfortable.

Sleep is…

_Sleep._

A hand pats his face, and Sam draws his gaze away from the gray ceiling. Concrete. "Sam?"

"Mm." He intones.

Cas's face swims in his vision. Oh. Right. "Stay awake for a little longer. You need to drink this." He gestures towards something blue. Sam feels sick at the sight, and oddly lethargic. Water. He needs water. Always needs water. Huh. That's kinda—

Something touches his lips and he turns his head away immediately. The movement is slow. "No," he murmurs.

"Sam," Cas sounds funny. Maybe desperate. "Please. It's just water, I promise."

"Throw it up," he protests. He feels very far away.

"You won't," Cas insists. "Sam, please." His tone causes Sam to hesitate. He debates, weighs it back and forth, but feels too exhausted to do much more than that. Accepting defeat, Sam rolls his head back.

Cas says something else, and eases him up. Sam can't support his weight. It's as humiliating as it is frustrating. Cas lifts the Highland Springs water bottle up to his mouth, and helps him drink. There's none of the roughness that Toni insisted upon.

Cas pulls it back before he's conscious of the fact he swallowed anything.

His mouth twists with protest, and Cas eases him back down. "I apologize," Cas murmurs, "but your fears for vomiting are not unwarranted. Give it time to settle. Then you can have more."

It makes sense, but it doesn't stop his body's desperate ache for more _now._ He pushes the thoughts away with effort when something else occurs to him. "Y'alrigh'?" Sam asks. He squints up, but realizes that he's not in any position to be looking at something. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back.

"Yes, Sam. I'm fine." Cas murmurs. He doesn't sound the part.

He thinks back to the brief glimpses he caught of the angel, unwilling to try and face the dizziness by opening his eyes. "You're kinda...peaky."

"It's nothing that I can't handle. Don't concern yourself with me. Just try to keep still."

The instruction is pointless. Sam isn't going anywhere, even if he tried. The four walls close. Locked room. Small space. ( _Pinned like a mutilated butterfly. Never, ever, able to walk away even if he tried. Because the Cage, because Lucifer just doesn't—)_ "Just need some sleep," Sam whispers. "Then we can...think."

Cas hesitates. "Think about what?"

Sam's hand flicks slightly. It takes him a second to remember. The words feel garbled when they come out. "About how to leave."

If Cas answers, Sam doesn't hear it. He's given himself up to sleep before the angel can get another word in.

He keeps drifting. He thinks he should be frustrated, but he just feels relieved. The long, lengthy hours where he doesn't have to _be._

Cas keeps waking him to give him water, and Sam's headache eventually starts to lessen. That weird euphoria goes away, and he begins to feel the aches and bruises dully. He'd be a liar to say he's not disappointed by this. Exhaustion still claws at him, and refuses to be abated. When he has the strength to roll over and lay on his side, head propped on his arm, Cas seems to feel comfortable to stop hovering so intensely over him, even though Sam's exhausted by the movement.

He knows he promised they'd talk, but he can't find the will to form words. Sam presses his lips together, and continues to listen to the silence, watching the world through half-lidded eyes. He falls asleep again. He doesn't know how long he's been in here. He doesn't really care. Time became a meaningless game he's forced to play a long time ago.

He only remembers vaguely when they come to take him again. Cas saying something harshly, flesh meeting flesh, his body resistant, but lethargic. He doesn't protest. He can't. He should. But he doesn't.

000o000

Six days, thirteen hours after Amara and Chuck, Cas's phone pings somewhere outside of Detroit, Michigan. Dean is on the road in the next fifteen minutes. He'd packed quickly and effectively, stuffing Sam's laptop into the brown leather case that's weathered years on the road.

The Impala's familiar rumble offers little of the comfort it normally does. The car seems strangely empty, though this is hardly the first time he's driven her alone. The engine purring grinds against his nerves, and the sound of the tires rolling against the pavement only adds to his agitation. Mile after mile is spent in silence until Dean submits and stuffs in a tape, turning the sound up. The music helps some, but not enough.

Cas's phone is on. GPS services are working fine. Ergo, Cas is getting a signal.

And he's ignoring Dean's calls and texts. Cas has a habit of lagging in response, so it's nothing too unusual in general, but given the circumstances, yeah, it is. He doesn't have any luck with Sam.

Unless they're in the middle of some sort of death match, he's gonna kill them both. A day or two waning on answering, Dean can understand, even if that's never been his habit. Nearly a week is something else.

Detroit is about fourteen hours from Lebanon by car, but Dean makes it in just under twelve. Coffee, adrenaline, loud music and speeding are a familiar medicine to time issues. It's just after twenty-one hundred hours when he rolls into a small town near Detroit. He feels stretched and exhausted, skin pulled tight against his bones, but he parks the Impala at the closest open diner and clambers out of the car.

He nearly topples almost immediately once he's on his feet. His legs are numb, and his shoulders ache. His eyes feel weird. He squeezes them shut for a moment, gripping the edge of the door's window. It's fine. He's fine. It's... _ugh._ Long road trips are always better with breaks and sleep.

He breathes in through his nose for a moment. Clenches his fingers around the glass until they ache, then releases it and forces himself to straighten. He hasn't slept in over thirty-two hours now, but it's hardly a record. Besides, if Sam or Cas are here, it will be worth it. Honestly, if evidence of them being here at all is in Detroit, then pitstop in dinky little hicktown trying to pass for impressive, he'll take it.

He licks his dry lips and glances inside the interior of the car. Hesitation pools through him before he grits his teeth and reaches inside, grabbing Sam's laptop. He needs a Wi-Fi signal. It's why he stopped here instead of the local bar. They professed free Wi-Fi on their window. He needs to make sure that Cas hasn't moved again.

He shuts the door, swings the bag over his shoulder, and silently hoping he doesn't look too much like walking death, makes for the diner's entrance.

There's a bell that dings when he steps inside, and Dean's gaze flicks up to it. It's large and silver. Generic. Nothing noteworthy about it beyond the sound it makes. He pulls his eyes down and sweeps his gaze across the small space. There's six tables, three chairs each, and only two of them have people. Two employees are sitting behind the counter, an older man in his mid-fifties, probably the manager, and a young blonde teen. They're both dressed in red polos and black pants, which Dean assumes is the official uniform of the diner.

Back of house probably has more than the measly duo; not that Dean really cares.

He steps up to the counter and ignores the way that the overhead signs' letters blur into one mash. "Coffee, black," Dean says. It occurs to him a second later he should probably eat something, but there isn't room inside his stomach for food and the gut-twisting anxiety. Not now.

The manager's gaze sweeps up and down him once before he lifts a graying eyebrow, "Sure you don't want a knockout to the head? Think I got a hammer in the back room."

Another time, a different lifetime, Dean might have been willing to banter with him. Now he could care less. Dean grits his teeth together, mildly annoyed. "Yeah," he says, intoning the word hard. He pulls out his wallet and slaps a five on the counter. "I'm sure."

The manager shrugs. "Your loss. I'm pretty apt at only leaving behind mild headaches."

" _Oren_ ," the blonde girl admonishes, some mix between horrified and embarrassed.

The manager, Oren, waves a hand, moving towards the register, "Go get the man his happy juice," he commands her, and she scampers off towards the coffee machine. Dean gives a nod of thanks, and Oren gives him a long, appraising look.

Having been on the media so much for murder, Dean wonders briefly if Oren is trying to place where he's seen him before.

He doesn't. Instead, he says, "To stay or go?"

"Stay."

"Good. Go away."

Dean lifts up his hands and backs away from the counter. He wants to fight, wants to hit something and draw blood, but he's not stupid enough to do it here. Especially not over something as mundane as coffee.

 _Used to be enough before,_ a soft voice mourns. A phantom ache of the Mark. Something he's never been able—or wanted—to verbalize. They may have released Amara, but it was like a drug. Rewired his thinking. Ruined him.

Dean turns around and walks away from the counter towards an empty table. He takes a position where he can see the exits, but his back is to a wall. His entire body protests at the thought of sitting down again.

Dean ignores it, and pulls Sam's laptop out. He flips the lid open and realizes that the battery is at fifteen percent. He works his lip between his teeth and grabs the charger, thankful he managed to remember the freakin' thing last minute, and plugs it into an outlet next to the table.

While Dean is waiting for the laptop to connect to the Wi-Fi, the teen arrives with the coffee. He nods once in thanks, taking it away from her absently. It's hot and bitter, but it keeps him awake, and at this point, it's really all he cares about.

A few minutes later, he's confirmed that Cas's phone is still near Detroit. The GPS can't get him any closer than within a mile, and though it's an annoyance, at least it gives him an idea where to start looking. Dean holds up his phone, staring at the messages. Unreturned. He starts typing _I'm in Detroit, you want to meet_ , then stops.

His thumb lingers over the keyboard, and Dean's mind hovers somewhere far about it.

Why is he even bothering? It's getting pretty obvious that they don't want to—

Dean shakes his head firmly, snapping the thought shut before it can finish. Tries to shake off the lingering feeling. _It's almost been a week,_ Dean reminds himself, _they aren't doing this because they choose to._ And yet. Cas's phone is on. His lips press together, and he sets the phone down on the table, sighing softly. "I'm twelve," he mutters in disgust.

Dean sits there for a long moment. He rubs at his face, trying to convince himself to get up. He can do this, just get up and keep looking, keep moving forward. He can sleep when he's sure that Sam and Cas are fine. And—

Someone's staring. Dean's skin prickles, like prey realizing a predator exists. He looks up. The younger woman and her companion left fifteen minutes ago. The only other customer still here is a man in his mid-forties. Thick jacket, stubble, and without any food or drink. He's the one staring.

When their eyes meet, the man tips his head slightly. His eyes are cold.

Dean's body clenches, bracing. His hand shifts towards his jacket to his knife before he's even conscious of the action. His other hand digs into the laptop keyboard slightly, fingers pressing till he's uncomfortable. Why is he…?

A figure moves in his peripherical, and Dean pulls his gaze away from the man just as Oren drops into the seat across from him. Dean shifts.

Oren gives a half smile, seeming both pleasant and discomforting all at once. "Enjoying your coffee?"

"Wi-Fi, actually."

Oren nods, resting his hands on the table. Dean flicks his gaze up towards the counter. Blonde teen is missing. It's just them, and Dean isn't stupid. This was intentional, to put them here together, alone. The _why_ escapes him entirely.

Dean carefully closes the laptop lid down. He packs the computer inside of the bag and realizes, not for the first time, he should probably get his own to drag across the country. Ever since Sam got introduced to tablets, Dean's been using his laptop more and more.

"So what brings you to our humble diner?" Oren asks, fingers resting flat on the tabletop.

Dean shakes his head, not willing to play. "We both know that you're not trying to make small talk. So stop. What do you want?"

Oren's humor drops a little on his face, sliding down and away. He leans forward, seeming to grow harder and older in the movement. "Where's your brother, Winchester?"

_Son of a—_

Dean feels his hands hold for a long second. He doesn't have the energy to be surprised. He isn't, honestly. This is _Detroit_. Supernatural activity flourishes and has babies here. There's a reason that it's one of the most dangerous cities in the US.

Dean looks up, and feels strangely impassive. "What's it to you?"

Oren looks incredulous. "Really? _Really?_ So you had nothing to do with that sudden solar eclipse the other day? NASA doesn't lose track of the _Moon_ you idiot. What did you do?"

Hunters, then.

Dean's fingers tighten around the laptop bag. His eyes flick up, trying to plan an exit. The other man is between him and the door, and Dean suspects this was intentional. There's a door behind him, but he doesn't think that it's unlocked. He doesn't have his gun; in his exhaustion, it didn't occur to him to bring it with him.

"What makes you think that _I_ had anything to do with that?" Dean asks, trying to force disbelief into his tone.

Oren slaps a hand down on the tabletop loudly. "Because you _always_ have something to do with it! Whether it's the Apocalypse or the Leviathans, it's _always you!_ "

Dean stills.

Oren is shaking his head, disgusted, "And you know what? I'm done. We're all done. You and your brother can rot in hell. In fact, I hope you do. Then you'll be their problem instead of ours. You both deserve—"

_I lost track of how many souls._

Dean didn't realize he'd moved until the man's head is slamming against the tabletop hard enough to crack. Oren gives a cry of surprise and pain. Dean doesn't care. Oren's head bounces back up, and there's blood gushing from his nose, red, streaming, and ugly. His forehead is split. Dean's fists curl, his heart hammering in his chest, pounding every beat for _more, more, more._

Dean grabs the laptop bag and forces himself to his feet. Pushes himself away. The urge to keep pounding until his knuckles break and the man is a bloody heap on the floor is racing through him. He feels ragged and torn. He grits his teeth and takes a step away from the man.

Only to promptly run into the barrel of a gun aimed at his heart. At some point in their conversation, the other man got up and moved towards them. The .45 is held steady in one hand, suggesting experience, and the metal is cold against his shirts.

Dean's spine is rigid.

The other man flicks off the safety, and Dean flinches slightly at the noise. The man quirks an eyebrow up, mouth lifted in a smile, but eyes void of any mirth. "Going somewhere, Winchester?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Held at gunpoint.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: PTSD, some violence.

* * *

It's not, by any means, the first time Dean's been held at gunpoint. He doubts it will be the last. It's not even the first time he's been on the receiving end of being shot to kill. But he doesn't have a get-out-of-death free card this time. Billie ensured that.

For a long moment, Dean just stands there, frozen; like he's never seen a gun in his life before. He's losing the advantage, can feel it slipping through his fingers, and can't do anything to stop it. _Move, Winchester!_

"Now," the man says. His accent isn't Southern. Something off the West. "We're going to do this nice and quiet. You tell us where your brother is, and it don't have to be messy. You don't and well…" The man slams a fist into his gut with more force than Dean would've given him credit for. Air is pushed from him. Dean's body jerks forward, hunching around the area by instinct even as his chest smacks against the gun.

Dean stays there for a second, breathing in harshly between his teeth. Then he forces himself to straighten and withhold the wince. He glares up at the hunter through squinted eyes, but he seems unperturbed, only lifting the gun so it's level with his heart again. Dean grits out, "Sam's none of your business."

The hunter laughs, "Made it our business when he decided to try and end the world three times."

Dean's eyes flicker closed for a second, lips thinning. His stomach is aching, but the nausea isn't from that. The quip falls off his lips without much thought. "You gotta be like what? Forty-five? Isn't the blame game a little old for you?"

The man hits him again, almost the same place. Dean's body bows, and he struggles to breathe for a few seconds.

_Frickin'—_

"A hunter's job is to play judge and jury," Oren says behind him. His voice sounds a little weird. Swollen. His nose is probably broken. Dean feels little regret at the action, if any, only glances underneath his elbow to spot him walking up, pinning him between the two. His teeth press together. _Great._ "You know that, don't you?"

A little too well.

Dean refuses to straighten, gripping the fabric of his jeans inside a fist. Remaining hunched keeps his forehead and his heart mostly protected. If the other hunter decides to shoot him, it won't do anything, but at least he can pretend for the moment.

The laptop bag slides down from it's perch at his side, almost smacking him in the face.

Dean stares at it, contemplating, thinking, weighing. Then he mentally offers an apology to his brother and grabs it in a swift movement, bringing it up to smack against the armed hunter's stomach. The edge digs into his stomach like a baton, and the man releases a puff of surprised air, gun momentarily forgotten as he grabs for the area.

Dean smacks the bag against the hunter's forearm, and the weapon is dropped to the floor with a clatter. Dean twists the computer in his grip and swings it towards Oren's sternum.

The man is faster. He manages to twist enough that the blow only strikes his shoulder instead, and doesn't waste any time recovering from the near miss. His fist is up and coming towards Dean's face before Dean has managed to regain his balance from the swing. Dean leans back to avoid the blow, grabbing his wrist, pulling forward then pushing back harshly. Oren staggers.

Dean makes for the front door while he's distracted, only to stop when the now-disarmed hunter grabs the laptop strap and yanks Dean backwards. Unprepared, Dean goes down, landing on his elbows hard, a slight grunt escaping him. _Really brought your A-game today, didn't you?_ A snide voice asks.

A boot slams into his side, just below his ribs. Dean jerks, fumbling to keep himself from tipping over. He tries to grab his dagger, but his hand is pinned beneath a combat boot. "You got a lot of nerve, coming here, pretending to be a hunter." Another blow, harder, and the battle is lost. Dean falls to his left side, hand wrenching painfully. The next words are punctuated by violence. "You're—" kick "—not—" kick "—a hunter." _Crack._ It takes him a second to realize that's Sam's laptop, not a bone. " _You're—"_ another blow "—a—" something in his chest shifts "—monster."

The blows lapse, and Dean pants, blood tickling the edge of his lips. The boot moves away, and his hand flails towards his chest for protection.

"We'd all be better off if you'd just _die. Why wont you die?"_

Dean can't repress a flinch at the words, hiding it inside a cough. They're familiar, things he's privately wondered about in late hours, when things seem a little less focused. Mind spinning in circles, round and round it goes for the big one.

Dean pulls his hands close. He sucks his cheeks against his teeth and forces the question aside. He can contemplate it later, but right now he doesn't have time for the blackhole that is thought. He spits, some mixture of salvia and pink blood spilling out. A groan threatens to spill out of him.

He lifts heavy eyes up to the hunter he can see, "You talk too much," he mumbles, trying to shift into a less compromising position. The back of his neck aches at the thought of Oren perched somewhere behind him, ready and awaiting. He hurts. Everywhere. "Anyone tell you that to your ugly face yet?"

"You little—" The man's leg lifts, preparing for another blow, and Dean braces himself.

The foot doesn't land. It freezes in place, like someone reached out and plucked all muscle movement from him, leaving the hunter balanced precariously on one foot. Dean's brow draws together in confusion until a gravelly voice says, "Believe me, I'd love to let you hit him again, but we need to talk, and I need him conscious for that."

Dean's gaze pulls up. A familiar black suit dots the edge of his vision. Dean doesn't know whether to be grateful or suppress a groan.

"Hello, Squirrel." Crowley says when their eyes meet.

_What on earth is he doing here?_

Dean coughs once, twisting his head behind himself to see Oren stuck in a similar position to his buddy's. Frozen, stuck, but easily pushable if Dean had the energy for it. He remains laying there for a second, breathing in and out harshly.

Slowly, like he's an old man conscious of tossing his back out, Dean hobbles into an upright position. The world sways for a moment, balanced on the edge of dizziness and blurred images. Dean clenches his hands into fists, and wraps his right arm around his ribs as inconspicuously as he can.

Oren's friend's eyes follow him as he starts to hobble away. They're furious. A glance back at Oren, face still bloody and baring similar murder in his uneven pupils is revealed.

Dean makes a wild guess, then, and decides that Crowley hasn't given them the option of speaking. The demon leads the way out of the diner, and once they've exited, Dean quickly outpaces him, moving for the Impala. He leans against the frame when he's close enough, sucking air between his teeth for his burning lungs. He grows lowly.

Crowley stands a few feet away as Dean wrestles with this, looking both bored and invigorated.

"What?" Dean demands between clenched teeth.

"No thank you?" Crowley asks, eyebrow lifted. "You, Moose and Giraffe—so ungrateful. You were getting beaten to a pulp in there."

Dean scoffs, and regrets the motion as it pulls on something inside. "I had it handled."

"Which part would that be?"

Touché.

Dean spits, wiping blood from the edge of his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue at some point. "What are you doing here Crowley? How did you even find me?" He shifts, holding his palm against his side. It's hard to breathe, and standing feels like he's been asked to run a triathlon after already doing it once. He needs ice. Or sleep. Both.

Crowley's head cants slightly. He gestures towards the city in the distance. "Detroit. Demons. You."

Dean grimaces. Stupidly, the thought of dealing _with_ the supernatural while in the midst of trying to find Cas's phone hadn't really come up. Against everything, it sort of seemed unimportant. But the anonymity he hid behind died out some time after Sam let Lucifer out. It's been years, but sometimes he still forgets that.

Dean shifts his hand against the Impala, pushing himself upright a little more. His back whines in protest to this, and he feels his mask break for a second. "Okay. Fine. How about the part of _why_ you're here?"

Crowley lifts up a tattered cellphone and tosses it towards him. Dean fumbles to catch it, barely managing to succeed between two fingers. The glass is cracked and the phone is nearly bent in half. It looks like something sharp penetrated the center, then kept smashing. The model is familiar, but not ownership. Dean looks up, "The point of this being?"

Crowley doesn't quite roll his eyes, but it's close. "Been looking into your missing persons case since you called. Associate of mine pulled that out of an alley in Kansas City a few hours ago. It's your brother's, if that wasn't clear beneath all the glass and broken plastic."

Dean's gaze flicks down to the phone again, viewing it in a new light. Then with coiled dread. "That's...it was still giving off a GPS."

"Funny that," Crowley nods, "SIM card's perfectly functional."

Dean starts at the broken phone and feels slightly incredulous. The fact that the SIM card was missed, when the intent of the phone was obviously to destroy, is almost laughable. And not something Sam would do. Sam takes the card out and smashes it first, _then_ the phone if it's needed. Not the other way around.

This wasn't him.

It's probably stupid, to feel relief at that, but it's there all the same. But that does raise a question: If Sam's phone was still in Kansas, what the heck is Cas's doing in _Detroit?_

000o000

"Sam."

"Sammy."

"C'mon, sunshine, don't leave me in the dark here."

The hand, when it grabs his shoulder to shake it, is freezing. Sam jerks awake with a ragged inhale at the contact, body tensing as he pulls away. He's lurches upward, and barely has time to do a frantic scan around the room—cell, gray walls, concrete, like everywhere else he's been, door too far away and locked—before his eyes land on the figure in front of him.

His head, for the first time in days (days?) is completely clear. His throat doesn't ache, he has no desire for water, there's no weird tapping of his heart. He feels like he's been shot with adrenaline after being healed by Cas.

There's a man straddling a chair a foot in front of him. Dark hair, impeccable suit, probably tall. He works here, for the London Chapterhouse. Suits are the only article of clothing he's ever seen any where. Sam's never seen him before. Not...not the vessel, at least. But he knows those eyes. The cold, sadistic calculation.

_Oh God, please not—_

Sam sits up, leveling the room, yanking his arm away as he does so. It's hard to draw in any air. "Don't."

Lucifer makes a face, but obligingly draws his hand back to rest on the top rail of the wooden chair. Sam doesn't know where it came from, it wasn't here in the last foggy memory he has of the cell, but he's hardly one to be playing a memory game. "You're so demanding, you know that?"

There's pain in his hand. Sam flexes his fingers, not daring to look down, and it abates. He was digging into the scar again. Once he realizes it, he lets his fingers return to their desperate attempt to reach his metacarpals.

_This isn't real. This isn't real. Isn't—_

His tongue feels wound around in his mouth, like it's being stuffed backwards into his throat. He sips in air between his teeth because he has to, and pulls his gaze away from the archangel for a brief, desperate glance towards the door. He's never wanted to see Toni Bevell's ugly brown heals more in his life.

It remains closed. Locked. Four walls, small room.

_You, me, locked ward..._

"This—" the syllables sound strange, so Sam tries again, "This isn't real." He feels nauseous. He can't remember the last time that he ate, but anything and everything that's made passage into his stomach since conception is free game. _This can't be happening._ It's some sort of dream. He went insane. Hallucination. Some mixture of the three.

( _Isn't, isn't, isn't—_ )

Lucifer was... _wasn't there_ after Amara. Cas was freed. Sam walked away, dread in his stomach, but other distractions in mind. Not more pressing— _never more pressing_ —but more present.

The angel cocks his head slightly. That weird bird gesture that Cas does. "Isn't it?"

"You're not here. You can't be." The words sound hollow. "It's just...it's just me."

Lucifer's lips quirk up. "I'm flattered, Sam, I really am. And given your situation here," Lucifer's eyes flick around the room, finger spinning once, humming slightly to himself, "I'd understand why you'd want my company."

And—

And.

There's.. _._ just _something._ About the way he says that. The flighty, flimsy panic that sprouted through Sam, waking him, controlling him, flickers. Resignation, dread, anger—everything and nothing else—slips into its place. He doesn't relax, he's not stupid enough for that, but his eyes settle instead of flickering wildly for some other indication this is all in his head, and his lips press together tightly.

"What do you want?" Is pushed out from behind his teeth.

"And he's back," Lucifer's tone is...is something. He's heard those words dozens of times before. In the Cage. When reality crashed and his mind started to fray. When Lucifer would drag him back from that, those words, uttered like a _thank you,_ would be there.

Sam's nails dig harder into the scar. " _What_ do you _want?_ "

_Don't—don't._

_Breathe._

Lucifer isn't angered by his shouting, which is almost worse. "Calm down, Samuel. You'll only draw unwanted attention, and I think it's in our best interests to keep things quiet." _Why?_ Sam wants to ask. "Can't have any eavesdroppers, can we? Now as for me being here..." Lucifer pulls his gaze back from where it was wandering, settling it on Sam's face, "it's you. Oh, relax. I came here to fix you, but I wouldn't bypass a yes."

Emotion tapers down. Sam feels numb. "What?"

Lucifer shifts, pushing up so he's not hunching forward as much. "You were dying, Sammy. Here I am to deliver a miracle." _You are not an angel. You are so, so far from an angel._ "And for something so petty, too. Dehydration and heat exhaustion. That's what gets you?" He sounds annoyed, like he expected more. Human limitation isn't something that always existed the Cage.

How, Sam wonders with dread, did Lucifer even find him? Or even know something was wrong? The sigils Cas burned into his ribs have remained untouched for years. _How?_ How does he know? He's not omniscient, but he still—

"How could you possibly…?"

Lucifer interlocks his fingers. Sam's teeth grit at the movement. "You're my true vessel. I feel when you're dying. Honestly, I'd planned on keeping some distance, but when you practically beg me to come like that…"

"I didn't—" Sam starts to protest, but stops. It's pointless.

Lucifer leans forward. Sam pulls back. There's nowhere to go. The bed is pushed against the wall, and Sam is already at the edge. Lucifer's tone is sympathetic. "No need for embarrassment. I understand."

No. _No._

_I don't want you to understand. There's nothing to understand!_

"Stop." Sam grits between his teeth. "Get out. You finished what you came here to do."

Lucifer's eyes flicker with mirth. Sam pulls his eyes down. "Did I? You sure you don't want me to extend that? You're not doing so hot here, are you? They did almost kill you, Sammy. I could provide some cover, smuggle you out like a drug dealer."

Sam lifts his gaze up, locking their gaze. He bites on his tongue, hard. "I don't want your help."

"Hm."

" _I don't,"_ Sam presses on the words, " _want your help."_

There's a brief, breathless stillness for a few painful seconds, then Lucifer's hand snakes out and clamps on Sam's left wrist. Sam flinches, trying to tug away, but he already knows it's useless. "Don't—stop— _no—_ " Lucifer's grip tightens until Sam releases a strangled noise in his throat, and his fingers flex out.

His nails are red. Sam's gaze flickers widely towards his hand for a moment. It's also red. He broke skin with his pushing, little half-moon scars from thousands of similar instances dotted with blood. "I think," Lucifer's thumb strokes over the area, and the faint burning sensation eases as the cuts heal. "You need to be more careful."

He's not breathing. His teeth clack together when he realizes this and he forces in air. His skin burns from the contact.

"You—" Sam starts to say, only to stop and flinch when the door is pushed open. Lucifer drops his wrist immediately, and turns around to face the entrance, body language annoyed. Toni Bevell stands in the doorway, expression flickering with mild surprise. She's gripping the same clipboard, and a small briefcase.

"Mr. Ketch," Toni says, nonplussed. "You didn't say you were coming in today."

Sam's gaze flicks to Lucifer.

He can see the archangel's attention sliding away from him, slipping into another persona like a second skin. Sam pushes his teeth together, pulling his wrist against himself. He pushes away, further, like he can simply fold himself inside the wall.

"Miss Bevell, how many times do we have to discuss this? You're not in charge of this operation." It's only then, as his accent flips to British, that Sam realizes they conducted the entire conversation in Enochian.

Toni's expression flickers with annoyance. "Yes, I am. If you intend to butt into it, why don't you take it up with management?"

Lucifer rises up to his feet. Sam follows the movement with his eyes, watching the tense rigidity of irritation there. "I will. Perhaps they can explain to me why you were attempting to kill our asset before you even got an answered question from him."

Toni's jaw tenses. "I _didn't_ —"

Lucifer takes several steps towards her. Away from him. The further the distance, the more Sam feels like he can breathe. "You deprived him of water for two days, then did little to try and save him. I'm surprised I haven't already been given this detail." He walks towards the door, clearly intending to leave. He _wants_ to stay, but unless he obliterates the woman—nothing he's above and Sam privately wonders why he doesn't—the archangel doesn't get much of a choice.

"Give him some water, would you?"

"You seem oddly concerned." Toni's voice is snide. Concern. That's not what this was. Sam feels awake for the first time in days, and knowing _why_ is sickening. "Don't play the humanitarian now."

Lucifer scoffs, then slides past Toni into the hall, but stops at the doorway, glancing back at Sam. Their eyes lock. The message is clear.

_We're not finished yet._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Cage.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Torture, some violence.
> 
> P.S.: Have only slept 4.5 hours in the last 37. Please excuse mistakes. :)

* * *

Castiel looks up when the door opens. Blinding light from the hallway pierces into his skull, and he tilts his head away slightly, flicking his eyes down to ease the strain. The lights inside his cell are nowhere near as luminescent, and the sudden adjustment is sharp.

"Angel," a female voice greets. Not Miss Bevell. Castiel lifts his gaze from the floor to her. She's tall, thin, with dark hair that's pulled back into a ponytail. Without his grace, he can't see her soul, but there's a faint scent of rot that wafts from her. She's a damned soul. He can't tell for when, but he knows it's there. There's a badge clipped to her waist that reads Dr. Elli Saris.

His muscles feel stiff, and his fingers curl around the end of the bench.

There's two figures flanking her, but Dr. Saris is the first person to take a step into the room. Castiel allows his eyes to settle on her face, following her slow, deliberate movements into the space. She seems like she's waiting for him to say something, but Castiel has little intention of doing so.

"Get up."

Castiel doesn't move. He rolls his head along the wall to the left, pinning her with his stare again. Her shoulders draw up as if agitated by this. "Where is Sam Winchester?" He asks.

"You think that I know?" Dr. Saris asks, eyebrow lifted.

No. He doesn't. Castiel re-phrases his question. "Is he alive?" He looked close to teetering on the edge of death as the last Castiel saw him. He'd been drinking the water, but it wasn't enough. Castiel could hear his heart's irregularity, and feared for the worst. Sam hadn't been responding to him, gaze blank somewhere far off, thoughts just as distant.

Castiel's meager fight to keep him had ended in defeat. He doesn't know what to do. They haven't let him see the youngest Winchester since they took him. This is the first time he's seen anyone since then.

"The question of the day, but I'm afraid his health isn't up for discussion." Dr. Saris draws a handgun from her lab coat. Castiel stares at the barrel for a long, heated moment; feeling indignant and frustrated. He wets his lips, resisting the urge to laugh.

If Dr. Saris honestly believes that a _gun_ is going to stop him, then she knows far less about angels than her organization has been flaunting.

"Get _up._ "

"Or you'll shoot me?" Castiel counters, almost scoffing it. Jimmy's dead. His vessel bleeding out or sustaining damage he can't heal means little to him now. He leans forward lightly, noting as the two men in the doorway move their hands towards their own weapons. "Do you honestly believe that to be an intimidation?"

Dr. Saris is undeterred. "You can walk there, or we'll drag you."

_Ha._

Castiel rises to his feet. His vessel, in human terms, is not short. Standing beside Sam and Dean often makes him feel the part, but he towers over Dr. Saris here. Her eyes pulling up to him, slightly wary, feels him with a strange sense of elation.

"You know what I am. You're more crass than I thought if— _gah_!" The gun discharges, and Castiel's right leg jerks. The pain is agonizing, as if she shot straight through muscle, bone and flesh exterior into his true form. But she can't—can't have managed that. There's few items that can pierce to that, and human bullets aren't among those.

The pain spreads up from his leg, towards his hip, twisting inside his stomach. Castiel almost staggers into Dr. Saris, wrapping an arm around his stomach when his throat burns. His vessel is aching everywhere, like it's being dragged across sharp nails or broken glass.

Heat burns through his blood. Boiling. Roiling. Spinning.

He staggers to his hands and knees, limbs shaking. The pain is all-encompassing. _Oh, Father. Help me._

Castiel's tongue is swollen, hot and dry against the roof of his mouth. But it doesn't stop his body from jerking. When he vomits, the only thing there is so red it's almost black. The blood dribbles from his lips, dripping towards the floor.

A low keening noise slips through him.

Dr. Saris's feet shift in front of him. Her heals caught in the splatter of his blood, and somewhere, distantly, Castiel is oddly snide at this.

He heaves again, more black blood. His vessel is beginning to tremble, hands shaking to the point of pain. The bullet feels wrong. He has to get it out. It's _wrong, wrong, wrong..._

What did she…? That's not a bullet. Not a normal bullet. They only serve as vague annoyances, even without his grace. _What did she do?_

Hands wrap around either bicep and Castiel is yanked upwards. A guttural sound is pulled from him and the world flashes some mixture between white and blue. If his captors spare any thought for pain, it doesn't show. He's pulled from the room, bare feet scraping the floor when he's unable to pick himself up.

The pain swallows everything. So _hot._ Burning. Like the fires of the Pit when they charred his wings—Burning, burning, burning—His insides, his leg. Everything. The bullet feels _wrong._ He needs to get it _out._

His hands try to scramble for the wound, intending to tear his flesh open or claw off his vessel's leg if it will help. The hands keep him firm, and struggling only makes the pain whisper up through his nerves towards his skull.

Castiel heaves again, blood dripping to the plain white shirt they gave him days ago. His eyes are wet. Not, however, from tears. His vision gains a hazy red tinge to filter the blurring.

_Please, please, I can't. I can't._

He doesn't know how much longer they walk, but Castiel is forced to sit. His body collapses against the frame and Castiel can't bear his weight. He slumps in their grip, boneless. He heaves up more blood, spitting, trying to breathe through the haze. Air gets caught somewhere in his lungs and throat, refusing to release.

_Dean. Sam. Please, I need—can't—_

A hand touches his leg. If he'd had the breath for it, Castiel would have screamed. Instead, he coughs a wounded sound, trying to reach for the injury. There's restraints around his biceps, forearms, wrists. Hands. Pinning him into place. Something cold and sharp touches the inflamed wound.

_Father, please._

Castiel moans lowly.

The sharp edge digs, and his back arches. His lips are moving. Pleas for mercy in Enochian. The bullet is slowly dug from his leg, edges of the blade poking into his true form. A part of him recognizes that the blade must be an angel sword.

When the bullet scrapes the final edge of skin, fingers reach out and pull it away. The burning, boiling sensation of his blood eases almost instantly. The sense of _wrong_ slips away with the bullet. Castiel gasps, coughing up the last dregs of blood from his throat.

A palm smooths out over the wound, and Castiel's leg jerks, finding strength from some reserve of energy remaining in him. _Don't touch me._

The bullet wound's skin knits back together, and the burn on his nerves eases some. Enough that he can focus on something beyond the ringing in his ears and the ice cold fingers of desperation. He's panting, soaked with sweat, and every muscle worn. He feels as though he's been wounded in battle. The pain...that…

He blinks several times, trying to bring the world back into focus. The room is a bright white, lights illuminating in a way that makes his head ache further. He's sitting on some sort of table, with a dozen more spread throughout the room, but empty. Not tables for eating, but examination. It looks like some mixture between a chemistry lab or a morgue.

Miss Bevell is standing a few feet away, holding a bloody bullet inside a pair of pliers glimmering with metal from an angel's sword. There's a pair of plastic blue gloves on her hands, but beyond that, she seems untouched by the bloodbath that's surrounding him. He's soaked in it, and he left a mess all over the floor and table.

Her two companions are standing next to her, one of them staring at the scene with open disgust, but vague curiosity.

Castiel swallows thickly before pulling his gaze down and flinches back with surprise. The action causes a dull ache to rise through his leg.

The woman kneeling at his feet, hand pressed against the wound, is a vessel. The angel is unfamiliar to him, but the burned wing structure indicates she's Rit Zien. Her head lifts up slightly and their eyes meet. Her vessel's are a pale brown. Behind them, the Rit Zein's are utterly lifeless. Not the cold calculation that permeated much of his life, ensured by Naomi. There's nothing there. Just a vacant emptiness that frightens him.

"Remain still, brother," the Rit Zien murmurs in their native tongue, adjusting her grip to support, rather than restrain. "I'm not finished."

Her hand pushes down on the wound again, and Castiel's hands clench, a weak strangled noise slipping from him. There's still hands restraining him, and Castiel doesn't have the strength to fight. "Don't...don't touch it. Please," Castiel whispers. His voice is hoarse, like he's been screaming, though he can't remember doing so.

A presence moves out from behind him. Then another. Three. They shift around him in a loose circle. More men of these agency, none of which he's seen before. Castiel feels a wave of confusion wash through him. He has to hunch forward to keep himself from toppling backwards. What…?

He feels sick. Nausea thick enough that it makes his mouth taste like ash and blood.

"Are you finished yet?" Dr. Saris asks, irritation plain in her tone. Behind her, Miss Bevell sets the bullet down on one of the counters lining the walls, resting the pliers beside the small object. Castiel follows her movement, feeling slightly detached from his body. The bullet is made from gold, or at least plated in it, and almost as long as his vessel's thumb. Weirdly, it looks charred, as if it was burned.

 _What_ is _that?_

"Not yet, Ma'am," his sister murmurs.

There's a soft ringing, and Castiel feels the injury alleviate. He sags in the grip of his captors, unable to hold himself up without the tension of agony to help him. Dr. Saris seems to take this as a conclusion and waves someone forward. One of the agents behind him walks forward, grabbing the Rit Zein roughly, flicking some sort of latch on the collar that's a mirror of his own.

His sister's body arches for a moment in a wordless cry, then she drops, almost boneless. Castiel can sense the exit of her grace from her vessel, pinned inside the metal like a ring around her throat. His stomach churns at the unnaturalness of the arrangement. Like her heart is on display or being dragged out by blood vessels behind her.

"Take the halo upstairs," Miss Bevell directs.

Castiel shifts slightly, trying to keep her in his sight as the agent pulls the limp vessel up and over his shoulder. He leaves Castiel's line of sight, and he hears a door shut. He didn't realize that...that these humans had any of his siblings. But he hasn't known who is missing since the civil war.

Dr. Saris steps up in front of him, adjusting her plastic blue gloves. Castiel watches her hands, suddenly very wary. He forces his lips to part, and the sound that escapes him is faint, "Who was she?"

He didn't even get to thank her.

His muscles ache, exhausted, and pleading to lay down. Unconsciousness threatens the corners of his focus.

Dr. Saris stares at him for a moment, then glances towards one of the men beside her, "Who? The angel? Why would we have her name?"

Castiel's gaze flicks away. They haven't bothered to try and identify him, either, and it's been days. The dehumanization makes his jaw bunch.

"What did you do?" Castiel glances at the bullet again. Knowing what those guns do makes him want to get as far away from them as possible. He's... _afraid_ of a human weapon. The concept is ridiculous, and humiliating. "What...what _was_ that?"

Dr. Saris looks like she's watching something behind him, and waiting for something. Castiel's neck prickles, a warning.

Miss Bevell provides an answer, unexpectedly. "Your Winchesters are well versed in our devil traps bullets. You honestly believe we didn't conceive anything for angels?" Castiel hesitates. He's seen the bullets, and was privately impressed by the ingenuity. "Bullets burned in holy fire," Miss Bevell says and waves a hand, faint smirk of pride touching the edges of her lips, "didn't work the way we'd hoped, of course, it _was_ intended to work like the devil's bullets and just pin you into place. I'm told there's little pain that compares to it."

Castiel balks. _Holy fire touched his true form?_ What? _How…?_ How could she possibly know about holy fire? It was a closely guarded secret between his siblings. A weakness that Metatron revealed to them from the Angel Tablet centuries ago. The _only_ reason Sam and Dean are aware of it is because Castiel _told them._ There's no way that Miss Bevell, or her organization, should have access to such information.

Castiel's been through the Bunker's books on angels more times than he cares to admit when they were searching for a way to deal with Amara. No one knew about holy fire. Theories, but not _confirmation._

_How could she know?_

"Now," Miss Bevell says, in an obvious attempt to redirect the conversation. "With that nastiness out of the way, it's time we get down to business." She makes it sound like they simply stopped to pick something up. Not...not _that._ "Is it true that you pulled Dean Winchester from hell?"

Apprehension washes through him. A warning. A promise. "Why would I tell you?"

Miss Bevell's lips turn down, irritation in her gaze.

"Because those bullets don't kill." Dr. Saris responds without missing a beat. "Believe me. It only makes you wish you were. Wears at the vessel inside out, though. A pity." She doesn't sound sincere. "I'd have to have to shoot you again."

He clenches up. "Yes," is falling out of him before he can stop himself.

The memory of the pain makes his teeth grit and a low thrum of something rattle through him. It takes him a moment to realize it's panic.

"Good." Dr. Saris nods at someone behind him, and Castiel feels his shirt torn open and something wet and thick pressed against the bare skin of his back. It's cold, and has the texture of honey. He flinches, but can't fight the exhaustion and intrusion at once. Her next words cause his breath to hitch. "I'm very interested to see what angel feathers touched by hellfire can do."

000o000

Some time in the next twenty hours after Dean gets to Detroit, Cas must send a text, or make or receive a phone call, because when Dean pulls up the website to find the GPS, it's happily telling him within a few meters where the phone is.

A surge of adrenaline washes through him, chasing off any remains of sleep or despair that's been keeping him captive for hours.

Dean rolls out of bed and pulls on his jacket, slipping on his boots and grabbing his gun and stuffing it into his belt, quickly gathering anything else he's dumped across the floor in the last twenty hours he's been in the motel room. He found and crashed here about two hours after Crowley gave him Sam's phone, and didn't move for the better part of the fifteen following. He forced himself to consume tasteless food and went out searching by foot, praying that Cas would make an appearance.

He didn't. Dean wandered for hours, head low and hidden beneath the blue ski hat and sunglasses he pulled from the trunk in an effort to hide his face. His stomach is a mess of bruises and his back aches with every breath from the interaction with Oren and the other hunter. He'd rather avoid another confrontation if he can help it.

Silently offering a plea to whatever's listening that the phone isn't destroyed and laying in some back alley somewhere, Dean exits the motel and climbs inside the Impala. It's a half hour drive to the rundown, somewhat-sketchy backwater area of the city the phone is claiming to be.

It's the kind of place that a vamp den wouldn't be out of the question, and probably isn't. Because that's freakin' Detroit.

Dean parks the Impala, locks the doors and feels brief regret at leaving her in the middle of the messy street that drug deals and murder probably happen on a daily, if not hourly, basis inside. He rests his hand on the edge of the hood for a moment, drawing himself together, breathing in the polluted air. The metal is warm from the cooling engine.

He presses his teeth together. "Okay," he murmurs to himself. He can do this. He's close enough to touch this now. But he's terrified. _What,_ a voice asks in the back of his head, _are you going to do when you don't find them here, either? You've no evidence that they are actually here, not just the phone. That they're anywhere._

Dean shakes the thoughts off. He pulls his 1911 out and checks the clip, making sure there's actually bullets there. There is. Silver. Not for any reason, it was just the closest container in the trunk. And also the furthest away from Sam's broken laptop. His brother is going to kill him. Even if the loss of the device feels like he let his brother's hand get cut off and just watched.

He might be able to get it to a computer store, but it would take a miracle to restore it to its former glory. If he's being honest with himself, though, Dean will happily take his brother's criticism if it means Sam's actually _here._

Dean pulls his fingers back from the Impala and rolls his aching shoulders, moving down the street. His chest aches dully, and Dean rubs at it subconsciously, bracing himself. He pulls out his phone and turns on the data, pulling up the website again.

The GPS happily proclaims Cas's phone with a red dot, and Dean starts to move towards it, heart in his throat. Dread isn't a perfect word to describe what he's feeling, but it's close. As relieved as he is to have found Cas, he doesn't want to deal with what dragged them away from the Bunker in the first place. What left it smelling like blood and bleach. Them untouchable for days.

He's close, but only be the edges of his fingertips. Not enough to grip. Minutes drag by in agonizing slowness, and the red dot shifts slightly, moving away from him. Not quickly, but enough that he picks up the pace.

"C'mon," Dean softly pleads, turning a corner, lifting the phone up, walking faster. "Cas, c'mon. Stay put for a few more minutes. It's not that difficult."

He passes an alley, intending to keep moving forward, but stops, pushing on his toes to keep himself up when he realizes that he's walking past the dot. Which...great. Dean's head lifts in the direction of the alley, sighing out between his teeth and moves back towards it.

There better not be some guy with a switchblade back here.

As soon as he steps into the alleyway, two figures standing towards the back flick wild eyes up towards him. A young Asian kid and an older man with white and gray scruff not looking out of place in a gang, albeit one of senior citizens.

There's a phone gripped in the wanna-be gang member's hand, and Dean's eyes lock onto it. He has no evidence to back his guess, but he just _knows_ that it's Cas's. Dean reacts. He doesn't think. He lifts up his gun and points it towards the two figures, shouting, "police, hands up!"

The reaction doesn't encourage their compliance. The two break apart, running like their very souls depend on it. The Asian kid grabs hold of a fire escape and starts a frantic climb, and the older man attempts to scramble towards the back of the building and turn the corner.

Thrumming, panicked energy pushes through him. Dean covers the distance of the alley before the man's turned the corner. He lifts the 1911 and fires twice. Warning shots, but the man yells with terror anyway, coming to a rapid halt, escape halted, hands raised in surrender. The phone is still gripped in his right hand.

Dean's teeth grit together, but he draws closer, anger raging through him. "Give me the phone."

The man looks back at him, confusion evident. "What?"

Dean pulls the gun up, " _Give me the phone!"_

The former gang member all but throws it towards him. It clatters on the dirt between them, and Dean scrambles to pick it up, fingers stiff and uncooperative. It's scratched and dented, but relatively unharmed. Dean looks up, the man is still pinned, as if afraid Dean will shoot him on priceable alone.

 _Wouldn't be that hard,_ that soft each of the Mark mourns. _Double tap. Heart, head. Something you've been capable of since second grade._

"Where did you get this?" Dean demands. The man's mouth opens, fumbling for a response. Clearly, the phone was the last thing he'd expected to be cornered over. Dean lifts up the gun, finger on the trigger. The urge to shoot him is hard to dampen. _Don't. Not here._

" _Where,"_ Dean forces his tone to be more level, clenching the phone hard enough his fingers hurt. "Did you get this?"

The man shakes his head, "I...I picked it off some Brit in the airport before my plane left. Look, man, I got parole. I only gotta go down there 'cause my sister was sick. I don't want any trouble, alright?"

 _What?_ Dean almost asks, then remembers his acclaimed affiliation with the cops.

"I know that selling it was wrong, alright? But the lady was just discarding them like they were nothing, and they were perfectly good phones. It was in the trash, so is that even really stealing? One man's trash is another man's treasure and all that. Look, she didn't seem to care, okay!?"

Sam's phone was in the Kansas City airport. Cas's originated there. That can't be a coincidence. Dean grabs a fistful of wanna-be-gang-member's shirt, yanking him forward, " _Who?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Alt. 14, shot.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gore.

* * *

"I-I don't know, man. She was just. Brunette. Uh, no, redhead. I've already said that, haven't I? Kinda tall? Maybe short, but wearing heels? Suit. You want me to sit down with a sketch artist or something, Officer?" The man is frantically bubbling out, "I don't know, man! That was more than a week ago! I didn't care. She's not even the last person I stole from!"

Dean's teeth press together.

_Don't pull the trigger._

"Do you remember what she looked like or not?" he demands through his teeth. "Because you're useless to me if you can't."

Wanna-Be-Gang-Member's face drains of color. "You ain't gonna call my parole officer, are you? I can't go back to prison!"

He almost snorts. _You should be more afraid of me shooting you than freakin' parole,_ he leaves unsaid. "Answer the question." Dean forces some semblance of calm into his voice. Tries to be more open and inviting, so the man will try to cooperate. People who are panicked don't give honest answers, they give the first one that comes to mind. Dean relaxes his hold on the man's shirt, instead of tightening it so he can ram the man's head against the wall.

With his heals on the ground, he seems marginally more relaxed. His eyes are still wild and flitting everywhere, though. "Uh. I don't. Maybe? I know she was a Brit. She was talking to someone on the phone, it's why she didn't see me take that one."

Okay. An English person has the phones...She's called someone...that only narrows it down to more than a million people. This...this isn't much to go on. They really need someone to install security cameras in the Bunker. When Dean drags Cas and Sam's sorry butts back there, it'll be the first thing he does after taking a ten hour nap.

"Did you see anyone with her? A really tall guy, maybe?"

"A tall guy?" The man sounds incredulous, "It's an airport, man! There's tall guys everywhere! _You're_ a tall guy!"

"He'd have been taller than me."

Wanna-Be-Gang-Member's eyes blow wide. He can't be any taller than five foot six, and has to strain to meet Dean's gaze from this position. "Like _what?_ Nine feet?"

"Never mind." Dean interrupts before he can continue ranting. Sam's height would have stuck out like a sore thumb. And even if it didn't, a kidnapped prisoner being dragged to a plane wouldn't have gone over well with security, given that they're ready to shoot you if you bring in a tube of toothpaste that's a fourth of an ounce higher than their restricted limit. "You didn't see anyone with her?"

"Uh, no." Wanna-Be-Gang-Member assures. "Just her. Wait. And some other British dude. Maybe they were a couple. That's all I got Officer man, I swear. I don't remember nothin' else."

Dean's lips press together in an unhappy line. Frustration washes through him; threatening to bow him. All he's had is dead ends and little leads since he started looking. A British woman having Cas's phone, with her maybe-husband, isn't much. It's better than nothing, he guesses, but he doesn't know if it will be enough.

He doesn't even know where to start. How is he supposed to—wait. _Maybe..._

"Were they taking a public plane?" Dean asks.

"Um, no. No. I only pick from the privates, y'know. They're richer." He seems to regret the words as soon as they've fallen from his mouth. "I-I mean, I _did_ used to do that, Officer. After jail, I am a re-made man."

Yeah. Right. And sticking to the same habits and patterns of behavior is a sign of what, then? Dean shoves his silent judgement to the side. If it's not a public plane, that makes things easier. Less private planes leave or come into an airport a day than public. "What day did you steal the phones?"

"Uh, last Tuesday."

"What time?"

"You think I got time stamps on me, Officer!? What did _you_ do last Tuesday at ten AM?"

Fine. Point taken. Dean bites on the inside of his cheek, releases it, then traps it again. He can't think of anything else to ask, though he feels like he should. He releases the man completely, taking care to keep his fingers splayed out. He pulls his 1911 away from the man's face, and forces his feet to move a step backwards. For a moment, he's not sure what he should say. Offer a thank you, an apology? He stands there, opens his mouth twice and shuts it while the man watches, then shakes his head. Disgust and embarrassment color his vision.

Dean tucks Cas's phone inside his jacket's pocket, and turns on his heel to make the walk back to the Impala.

"You ain't gonna rat on me, are you?" Wanna-Be-Gang-Member asks with real distress.

"Depends if you keep selling phones," Dean calls over his shoulder without looking back. "Keep your hands clean and we're the only one who has to know about this conversation."

He can't see it, but almost pictures the man sag with relief. "Oh, thank God. Thank you, Officer!" Is yelled at his back. Dean turns the corner and shakes his head, feeling oddly annoyed. He should be grateful that the man was so willing to divulge information, but his cooperation was just unhelpful. The woman's hair changed color three times.

Unreliable witness. Something he is, unfortunately, used to.

As Dean walks down the street, he pulls Cas's phone from his pocket and turns on the screen. It's been charged recently, the battery is at a happy fifty-three rather than dead or almost there. Wanna-Be-Gang-Member probably plugged it in to make sure it was still working before he sold it. What a saint.

The screen flickers to life. The lock screen is one of the automated nature scenes, which makes him huff, but isn't a surprise. Dean swipes the screen, prepared to pull up some guesses on a passcode but the phone opens to the home page without a fight. Incredulity whispers through him. "How many times," Dean murmurs under his breath, "did Sam tell you to add a freakin' passcode, Cas? No wonder your phone's getting sold in a back alley. You practically left the door open for them."

He feels strange, talking to himself. Normally someone's there to be on the receiving end of his words. A wave of longing washes through him for his brother. Sam doesn't always like to talk, but he listens. Even when what Dean has to say is utterly pointless.

If he can't find Sam, or Cas, then this seclusion is just…

No. he can't—shouldn't—think about that. He's busy. His thoughts are a distracting weight he can't carry at the moment. _Can you ever? Hold them, that is?_ A soft voice asks in the back of his mind. _You're a little too busy giving them to a bottle._

Bottle. Alcohol. Liquor has scarcely crossed his mind over the last week. Finding Sam and Cas had been a priority, and he didn't have the time to take a plunge. With the thought open and hanging, it suddenly seems a lot more appealing. What does he have to remain sober for? Running after Brits and the waiting game?

He's not making a lot of progress here.

Dean releases his lower lip, pushing a sigh from what feels like his feet out. He looks back down at Cas's phone, something heavy in his stomach, and casting a net on his chest. He swipes through the apps for a moment, trying to find some sort of evidence, or a message, something. Sam's phone's memory card was destroyed. There wasn't anything to pull.

Cas's phone is almost bleak with how empty it is. The automatic apps are still loaded, like Facebook, and only a few have been downloaded. It takes him a moment to find the messages. A part of him is hopeful he'll find a response in the progress of being written, because that means that Cas and Sam at least had time to sit down inside the Bunker before whatever happened.

There's almost two dozen listed "Dean"s in the messages, with a number attached to the end starting from one and going up. There's about as many "Sam"s. It takes him a second before he realizes that Cas never deleted the old conversations from phones he and Sam have stopped using, and Cas hasn't replaced his phone since after they crawled out of Purgatory.

Morbidly curious now, Dean scrolls down and finds "Bobby", "666", "666's Origin", "C.B." and "Meg" among others, a few of which are definitely angel names. Huh. 666 must be Crowley, which means 666's Origin is probably Rowena. Weird. Dean didn't realize that Cas had anything so severely against the two that he wouldn't even give them a name.

Dean's thumb hovers above the screen for a moment, but he scrolls up to most recent messages, leaving the conversations alone. The last text Dean sent to the phone is under "Dean-C", which Dean assumes the C is probably for current. There's no save draft of anything in progress. Dean scrolls up through his myriad of messages until he finds the last one Cas responded to. His stomach twists. _Where are you?_

Dean turns off the phone and pockets it when he spots the Impala down the street. She's untouched and unharmed, gleaming in the overcast sunlight like nothing is wrong. Strangely, he feels frustration at this, like the car should mirror his feelings.

Dean pulls out his keys as he approaches, trying to scrape together a game plan. For the moment, all he has is a hope that the hacking skills Frank showed him will still hold, because he needs to hack into the Kansas City airport's security feed. He may not know the blonde-brunette-redhead, but he does know what Wanna-Be-Gang-Member looks like. It's not much of a plan. But nothing has been since he started looking.

Dean rests a hand on the Impala, biting the inside of his cheek harder before letting go. "Hey Cas," he prays quietly, feeling defeated and weirdly lacking. He forces his gaze forward so he doesn't have to know if anyone's staring at him, as he continues in a low voice, "I found your phone. I know…I know you and Sam are missing. Just...hang tight, okay?"

_And please, for the love of God, do not be dead._

000o000

The words murmured behind him are a spell. Castiel recognizes that much. The sensation of dark, hissing magic claws through his skin, stretching and pushing against it. Trying to pull something _out._ The sensation isn't as painful as it is uncomfortable—at least, until his shoulders jerk, skin prickling with an itch and Castiel feels the skin split open.

Thin tracks of blood spill down his back, under his shoulder blades, and Castiel feels something clawing it's way out from the gashes. Feathers, bones. Wings. _His_ wings. A slight noise is pulled from him, somewhere between a groan and a hiss, then Castiel hears something heavy drop onto the table behind him. There's noises of exclamation and disgust, and the hands holding him into place release in an effort to avoid the sharp, bloody feathers.

His wings.

_His wings._

They...they _pulled_ them from the ether. Without his permission. His consent. His ability to stop.

Castiel hates witchcraft.

Castiel breathes out through his teeth, drawing the aching limbs close to his back, folding them in. Cold feathers press against his vessel's skin, almost painful in their temperature difference. He hasn't pulled his wings from their ethereal state in well over a year. Not since he got his grace back from Metatron.

He'd pulled them free, then, to check. He can't release them from the ether without his grace, so he'd had no way of seeing what damage had been done until after Metatron tossed him from Naomi's office. And...and what was still intact.

Keeping them in the ether has kept them hidden. Safe, from any further damage.

Miss Bevell's head tilts, and she reaches a hand out, gloved finger touching the edge of a feather. Castiel snaps the wing back from her, but there isn't a need. The edge of the plastic is cut and the feather splits open the top of her finger. Miss Bevell swears under her breath, pulling her hand in towards herself and pinching the wound.

There is, Castiel thinks with slight derision, a reason they craft their blades from their feathers. They aren't the fluffy counterparts of Earth's birds. Light, yes. But not soft.

"Fascinating," Dr. Saris murmurs, gaze flickering across what she can see. It's not her first time seeing wings. Castiel can tell by how unsurprised she is at Miss Bevell's retreat.

 _Stop gawking. They're disgusting._ Castiel's hands wrap around his stomach lightly, like if he hunches enough, his wings will return to their ethereal state. He can't push them back in. They feel like bulky arms attached to his vessel, not something hovering just beyond it. He feels split open and exposed. Pinned to be stared at. His wings shift slightly, and the edges of the feathers scrape against the table. He wants to stand up, but he doesn't know if his vessel's leg could bare the weight.

And….and they still have those guns. He's an angel, he shouldn't be afraid of a bullet. Is it possible, he wonders darkly, to fall any further?

_Do something, you coward. Will you leave Sam here to die? How many opportunities will they give you to spread your wings? One bloodbath, then you can walk away. It won't be that hard. You desiccated heaven. A handful of humans is nothing._

He…

_Get up._

Dr. Saris grabs a tablet off of a nearby surface and starts to type something down on the screen. She looks at Miss Bevell, "The spell work we can do from these alone…"

_Get. UP._

Miss Bevell seems slightly less enthusiastic about that than she did a few seconds ago, finger still gripped in an effort to slow the bleeding. The wound was barely bigger than a papercut, but she's treating it like it's fatal. "The feathers have been touched by hell. A merge of divinity and damnation." When she looks up at him, her gaze is hungry. "We've so much to study."

She reaches out her hand again, intending to touch, maybe to pull. It doesn't matter. Castiel catches her wrist before she can make contact with his wings, clenching hard enough he feels bone shift beneath her skin. She cries out in surprise and pain. Castiel hears movement, and the sound of several guns cocking.

Trepidation swirls through him. Warning him to back down, begging him to stop.

But Castiel thinks about Sam's pale face, and the sound of his heartbeat slowing. Dean's prayer. And he doesn't remain stagnant. Let his weakness control him no longer. He snaps Miss Bevell's wrist without another thought, and shoves her backwards into Dr. Saris. The two women tumble into each other.

He staggers to his feet, grabbing the table's edge and thrusting it at the three other men before they can take aim. They attempt to scramble in a mad dive to get out of the way, and Castiel doesn't wait for them to gather their bearings.

He turns and makes for the exit, only to stumble leaning against the nearest wall. Pain shoots up from his thigh towards his head, momentarily blinding him. Twisted in the muscle like a cramp, waiting, _daring him_ , to move forward. He pants for breath, nearly toppling. If this is what the Rit Zien considers better, he doesn't want to know what trying to move on it before would have felt like.

A gun discharges. Castiel flattens himself against the wall, watching the long, golden bullet fly past him and embed into the stone on his left.

_Move, you idiot._

Castiel pushes away, trying to hobble, limp, anything, _something,_ out of the room. He doesn't know how he plans on making it any further than the hallway, but he can't care. He needs to find Sam. He has to keep—

Another gunshot. Castiel pulls away, but the bullet still grazes the edge of his left wing. A gasping choked sound pulls out of his ragged throat. The heat and discomfort is no where near as paralyzing as it was before, but it still hurts.

He's not... _think, stop, don't collapse, don't collapse…_

He's not going to make it out of here unless he deals with them first. He turns. Snaps his wings out. Decrypt feathers balance precariously on the edge of falling, and the burned tips make him inwardly cringe. They look like a patchwork of blood and burns.

Dr. Saris is holding a gun out towards him. One of the men is pinned beneath the table, the other two holding their weapons steady. Miss Bevell is behind Dr. Saris, a phone in her hand.

"Stand down," one of the men demands, "or we shoot."

His jaw tightens. But he doesn't stop.

Castiel reaches a hand behind himself and grabs a fistful of the feathers, blooding his palms as he does so, and yanks them from his wings. It throbs dully. The guns discharge. Working with his vessel's adrenaline, Castiel skitters out of the way in an awkward, limping attempt at a dodge. As they aim again, Castiel flings two of the feathers towards the men like throwing knives, and dives for Dr. Saris.

He hears his makeshifts blades impact before he drives the feather through Dr. Saris's heart. She gasps, looking at him with wide eyes, choking on blood. Castiel pulls the gun from her grip and narrows his eyes, inhaling the smell of her rotting soul. "Say hello to Crowley for me." He whispers, then looks up at Miss Bevell, gaze hard.

His hands are stained with blood. He feels like an animal. His wings shift, and Miss Bevell eyes them with fear and horror. _You understand now,_ Castiel thinks darkly, _what it is that I can do with them._

She's panting, and scrambling back as quickly as she can with only one functioning arm. "Cas," she says, and the word is as unfamiliar on her tongue as it is unwanted. Castiel pulls the feather from Dr. Saris's chest, lifting to his vessel's full height. He towers over her from this distance. "Take mercy. You're an angel. I have a daughter. Don't leave her motherless."

He stops.

His mind catches up with him, spinning, spinning, and he comes back to himself instead of the desperate, clawing urge to _kill or be killed._ He didn't imagine, can't imagine, still, that Miss Bevell would be a parent. But she has a daughter.

But Sam is still out there.

The decision to kill isn't left to him. He didn't hear the door open, but he understands perfectly when someone speaks in Enochian behind him. "Cas, Cassy," a tongue clicks, "look at this mess."

Castiel whirls, but not before he sees Miss Bevell slump with relief, hand releasing her phone.

Lucifer stalks up towards him, in a vessel Castiel doesn't recognize, but it matters little. How is he _here_ of all places? Why is he here? How did he get here? Why would he intervene? _Why, why, why—?_

Lucifer's hand lifts, taking the bloody feather from his numb hands. His vessel's dark clothing is smeared with something. Castiel feels stuck. Rigid. "There we go. I think, little brother, it's time for your murder spree to see an exit. Don't you know how precious human life is?" Lucifer's voice is almost sympathetic. On the edge, but not enough. False. Plastic. Like everything about him.

Castiel's gaze lifts, suddenly furious. "You would lecture _me?"_

Lucifer smirks. That's blood, on his sleeves, under his fingernails. Not from this room. It can't be. He didn't make it that far. It's not fresh enough to have been drawn in the last hour. No one mentioned any killings. No one left in a frantic flight to stop the archangel on a killing spree so _whose—_

Oh.

_Oh._

Castiel feels nauseous.

_Sam._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Get it out


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Torture. Gore.
> 
> Sorry. I had things. Life. Two days late, but at least it's here. :)

* * *

Lucifer sets the Highland Springs water bottle down on the table.

It lands like an ultimatum.

Sam lifts heavy lids upwards, staring at the archangel through his hair. It's slick against his face, bangs hanging in front of his eyes, but beyond his ability to move. The interrogation room is just as humid as before. Sam is beginning to suspect that the London Chapterhouse is attempting to force delirium as a way to compel answers from anyone they bring in here.

He wasn't awake for that. He doesn't know how they got him in here. He fell asleep inside a cell, then woke up pinned to the chair. Wrists, ankles, biceps. Everything feels chaffed, and the moisture leaching from his skin isn't helping. It's making his skin soft, and the metal and leather only cut deeper because of this.

"You say I never do anything for you. But look," Lucifer rests a finger on the water bottle, tapping the lid twice with one finger. "I brought you something nice."

Sam's tongue pushes against the inside of his teeth for a long moment. He tries to force himself into being more aware and alive, but the lethargy is hard to ignore. His mind screams at him, but his body demands rest. Fighting it is like flapping butterfly winds against a hurricane. He can't remember the last time he spoke, and his voice is croaky, "Am I supposed to thank you?"

Flash of annoyance. "That is the common courtesy, yes." Lucifer agrees.

"No."

Lucifer shifts, leaning one hip against the table's edge, tipping his head to give Sam a long, contemplative look. Sam bites hard on the edge of his tongue, feeling sick. The four feet of space between them isn't enough. The distance of the Cage to Earth wasn't enough.

Sam shifts his wrists. The pain is a momentary distraction from the scrutiny, and a welcomed one. His fingernails dig into the scar adjoining his palm.

The silence grows cold. Uncomfortable.

"What are you doing here?" Sam pushes out, "You could leave. You have nothing to stay for."

Lucifer smiles gently. "I have _you,_ Sam _._ "

He hates the way his name sounds falling from those lips. It doesn't matter the vessel, it's still Lucifer behind those vocal cords.

Sam looks away, swallowing bile. Something like a shudder races up his spine, pulling his shoulderblades together tautly. _No._ He's not going to do this again. Lifetimes of the same, endless circles. Losing himself, his name, his being, only to have it dumped back onto him with the hopes that the shattered pieces would fit the same way again.

_I went insane a thousand times._

"Go to hell."

Lucifer leans forward. Sam looks at the table to keep the edge of him in view, but not his face. He can't tear his eyes away. He won't. "Big words for a man who never left. At least," Lucifer taps the side of his vessel's head, "not here."

Sam twitches. Lucifer's grin widens slightly, and he continues, like a wolf leaping onto their prey and baring teeth.

"It's cute, really, how well you pretend to keep yourself together. You're dying inside and you have been for a long time. All that talk about hope at the end of a tunnel. But all you want is the beginning." Lucifer's voice softens, "You miss me, don't you? How simple everything was."

His stomach is knotted enough that real pain begins to pulse there. "No." Sam grits, feeling slightly panicked, as though he's been caught underneath a spotlight in the middle of a dark night and the police have just yelled "freeze!" If there is truth to Lucifer's words ( _it's an if?)_ , it's in a dark, quiet corner of his mind he keeps silent and sealed beneath lock and key.

He would kill himself before going back.

"You can't lie to me."

" _No."_

"Hm."

His breaths are freezing inside his lungs. The room may be humid, but his insides are frosting over. _Evade, evade, evade._

"What are you doing here?" Sam asks. There's desperation in his tone. Lucifer's lip quirks at the sound of it.

"Struck a sore spot?"

_Stop it._

"Are you supposed to be conducting an interrogation? Playing FBI?" Sam continues, like he didn't say anything. The words sound strange, as though there's not enough life in them. "Toni wants to know about more hunters?"

Lucifer clicks his tongue, laughing faintly, "She is aware that all your contacts are dead, isn't she? Kinda the Winchester MO." Sam opens his mouth, only to stop at the archangel's sharp rebuke of, "don't get off topic."

His thumbnail scrapes on the underside of skin on his palm, pealing up layers of skin, and Sam flinches at the sudden shift in movement. He'd been pushing down, not inside. His hand is a mess. It feels like it's bruising. Reality aches, but at least he knows what it is. Lucifer's eyes assess him, as if looking for a source of the pain. Hoping to exploit it.

Sam forces words out to distract him. " _What_ topic?"

"You. Us."

His heart is in his throat, his stomach laying in a dead heap at his feet. The urge to run and to cower are like an immovable object ramming against an unstoppable force, though he couldn't say which was which. It's an age-old question regardless. Which will give out first?

Lucifer rises to his feet, as if agitated. He circles around Sam, in a way that would have his skin crawling if he couldn't watch the movement through the mirror. As it is, his breaths are starting to get shorter anyway.

When Sam says nothing—can't say anything, _what is he supposed to say to that?—_ the archangel continues without prompting, "I know you. Intimately. Every ugly wire that connects all things Sam together. What makes your head whir."

_We're one in the same._

_You've belonged to me since your conception._

" _So?_ "

"So I don't understand," Lucifer's voice has dropped under the edge of humor. Of anything remotely warm. Sam's skin pulls against muscle and bone at the cold. "What it is that makes you so _special."_

What? "What?" Sam says. Of all the words he expected to hear, that one wasn't it. It's spoken like an insult, and Sam's insides twist around as if Lucifer threatened to pull a limb from him.

The archangel pauses for a moment, then leans around the chair and drives a fist inside Sam's stomach. And keeps going, and _going_ , fingers crawling like a scalpel trying to break the skin for a surgery before snagging around his soul. The fingers surround and push on it like claws, and the pain makes his vision go white.

_Oh g—_

_Dean!_

There is, Sam has learned, a difference between agony and suffering, Suffering you can scream to. Agony is breathless, frozen silence, where air is impossible to draw in. It tries, but fails, only getting tighter and tighter, like being garroted.

Lucifer loosens his grip slightly, enough that Sam can draw in gasping pants. His struggles against the handcuffs are meaningless. The world is fading, blurring into cold metal and blue flashes of illumination. There's pain in his shoulders. Meathooks. No...no that's not...not right.

"You're so _pathetic._ Nearly dying from lack of water. Unable to heal yourselves. Weak and faint. There's...there's just nothing about you, any of you, hairless apes," Lucifer continues, twisting his hand and Sam coughs on tears, "that's worth anything."

Sam struggles violently to get his breath back.

Lucifer's fingers tighten again, crushing instead of holding.

He—

_Painpainpainpain…_

It—

_PainpaInPaINPaiNPAIN…_

Wh—

_PAINPAINPAIN…_

D—

Loosen.

Sam chokes on a tears. His eyes are stinging, and his throat burns, but he doesn't have the breath to cry. Lucifer smooths back hair from his face, taking a moment from his rage to play placating. Sam flinches back from the cold contact. _Don't touch me, stop, stop, stop..._

"I won't judge. Let it out."

_No._

His body, however, is less resilient. Tears spill from his eyes, trailing down his face. Lucifer's thumb wipes one away, his other hand still cradling Sam's soul. _Stop, stop, stop._ "Go…" Sam croaks between pants, "to...hell."

Lucifer's fingers flex in and Sam gasps a sob. "And he came running to you all the same. Do you know how long I waited for that apology? For the smallest, glimpse of his attention? Millennias, Sam. _MILLENNIAS_ _!"_

And—

Wait.

 _Chuck?_ This has to do with _Chuck?_

"And I get it. I finally make peace. Things are good, then you and your brother—" Lucifer's hand tightens again.

_Helpmehelpmehelpme..._

_Nothingnothingnothingnothing..._

_Toomuchtoomuchtoomuch..._

_Pain. White. Black. Dark. Nothing. Help me. It hurts. I can't. Air. Dean. Choking. Tears. Dean. Nothing. Help. Numb. Too much. Cas. Nothing. Pain…_

Release.

Sam's breath is a hitched, strangled noise. Not an inhale, not an exhale. Just a sound.

"—You come gallivanting in. And you convince _my_ father to run off into the wild with a being who wanted him dead no less than a few weeks ago. And, man, I gotta say, if he dies, because of you," Lucifer's eyes flare for a moment, and the cold that races through Sam makes his teeth clack together. When he manages a small breath, a plume of mist is expelled. "The perfect pain you'll experience...it'll make our time in the Cage seem like a holiday."

_The worst part is always discovering you have a new ten._

Sam can't hold himself upright, held in place only by his bonds and the fist inside his chest. Immovable object. Unstoppable force. Doesn't matter. Sam can't go anywhere. "Please," he whispers, voice barely audible, but he knows it won't make it better. "Please…"

"He was mine." Lucifer says, gaze somewhere above Sam's head. He's thinking out loud, not talking to him. He has been since this started. "For the first time in a long time, he was mine. And you took him from me."

"I—I...didn't… _ah!_ "

A clench, like trying to wring water from a wet rag. When Sam can think again, the edges of his vision grey, he's panting, "sorry, sorry, sorry" with all the air he can draw in. He can't remember making the decision to talk.

_Dean. Cas. Jess. Bobby. Dad. Please. Someone._

_Please._

"Dad has a soft spot for you," Lucifer murmurs, and then leans in, close enough that Sam can feel his breath against his face. _Too close, too close, too close._ "Let's see if we can draw him back here to save you."

Sam doesn't pass out.

He wishes he could, but Lucifer won't let him.

He screams until his voice breaks, and when Lucifer releases his soul, Sam vomits black blood all over the archangel, his shoes, his sleeves; Sam's own clothing. With blood smeared down his chin, from where it's bubbling out of his lips, he makes a frantic scramble to unconsciousness, pleading. He would have sold his tattered soul for it.

His only rescue is not a release into nothingness. Lucifer's phone starts to ping with frantic notifications, and the archangel makes a face of annoyance, wipes away blood off his left hand onto Sam's shirt, then pulls the device from his pocket. Sam moans low in his throat, the urge to be sick again lingering.

He looks up at Sam, something in his gaze. "Duty calls. We'll have to continue this later."

_No. Please no. No, no, no._

The door closes. As the archangel gets further away, he releases the hold he has. Sam passes out before he comes back.

000o000

"What did you do?" Castiel whispers. He can't get his voice any louder. Human adrenaline has raced its course and crashed.

Lucifer releases an expel of amused air. He runs his fingers along the sides of the bloody feather, smoothing down the rough edges. He scrapes blood away with his thumb, looking like he's both stalling and distracted.

Castiel reaches forward and grabs a fistful of Lucifer's shirt, pulling him forward, wings flexing out. " _Where is Sam?"_

Oddly, it's not annoyance, or even fear that flickers through his sibling's eyes. It's laughter. Lucifer flicks his wrist, pressing the tip of the feather against Castiel's throat, just above the collar. He strains his neck, but doesn't release his hand. Lucifer snort is derisive. "Are you going to hit me?"

"Yes."

"Hm. You see, Cassy," Lucifer leans forward, and Castiel pulls back. "For that to be intimidating, you actually have to be a threat." He taps the feather against the collar twice, electing two sharp _clicks_ from it. "But you're about as dangerous as an angry cat. You couldn't take me on your best day. And today doesn't exactly qualify does it?"

The truth of that statement makes his teeth grit together.

"Mr. Ketch?" Miss Bevell asks from the floor. Castiel almost flinches. He'd forgotten she was still here. Where they _were._ This isn't the inside of his head. The standoff is real; _here,_ where physical altercations with have actual repercussions. Like bodies.

There are already three bodies here. Two living souls. One is Miss Bevell. The other must be the man beneath the table.

Lucifer's head tips in warning, and Castiel debates for a long, weighted moment. But reason wins over stubbornness, and he releases his brother, taking a step back. He draws his wings against his back, and glowers into the side of the archangel's head as he sets his feather down on a still-standing table and offers a hand out to Miss Bevell.

The woman smacks it away with her good hand, looking disgusted. "I don't need your help."

"Would you make up your mind, then?" Lucifer says. He's returned to English. His vessel has an accent. It sounds strange to hear it wrap around his voice. Insincere, somehow. The words tumble from him without a problem, however, as he slides into whatever human persona he's adopted. "First you're demanding it through your bombardment of texts, now you don't want it? Should I leave you to the angel next time?"

Miss Bevell pushes herself up, grabbing hold of the rim of the table with a white-knuckled grip. She shoots Castiel a dark, fearful look. "Are you to just going to let it stand there? _Restrain it!"_

"Oh," Lucifer glances back at him, lip tugging up. "I don't think that will be necessary."

Castiel's fists clench and he wants to prove his brother wrong. To strike him. But he doesn't move. Doesn't fight. He just stands there, feeling vaguely sick and trying not to look at the blood leaching from the bodies, pooling onto the floor around their frames. They're not the first lives he's taken, not by far. But it doesn't matter. He killed them. He didn't even hesitate.

_You're supposed to be better than this now._

Miss Bevell scoffs loudly with disbelief, pulling her broken wrist to her chest.

Lucifer returns his heavy gaze to her. "You should have that looked at."

"Call in a team." Miss Bevell says through her teeth, "Now. Tell them to bring angel restraints."

Castiel's lips press together. He wonders, with dread, what angel restraints mean if their bullets felt like death. He knows that Sam and Dean have their cuffs covered in sigils, but he doubts that the Men of Letters have something so simple and painless.

Miss Bevell's phone is on the floor, next to where she was laying. Castiel assumes she's decided kneeling down and getting back up is a feat she won't be able to accomplish. Faint guilt whispers through him, but not enough to fill him with honest regret. Lucifer's shoulders roll back with annoyance, but he obligingly pulls out his phone casting a look towards Castiel like they're sharing some sort of joke. "Utterly demanding."

The sight of his hands, the dried blood, stiff beneath his fingernails, reminds him.

Sam.

Castiel reaches out and pulls the phone from Lucifer's grip, crushing it inside his fist. Bits of glass and plastic sting his palm, but Castiel doesn't care. The look the archangel shoots him causes Castiel to draw back and in slightly. But it doesn't stop him. Castiel is wary. Not afraid. Having shared a headspace with him, he knows better how far he can push.

"Take me to Sam." Castiel's voice holds more resilience than he'd expected of himself.

Lucifer makes a sound in his throat. Miss Bevell stares at him. Then towards the bodies. Disgust, denial, and the barest edge of confliction linger in her eyes.

Castiel drops the broken bits of the device to the floor. " _Now."_

Miss Bevell's eyes narrow, and she wipes stray blood from the side of her lip with the back of her hand. "Fine. On one condition. You give me some of your feathers for further study when we're done here. You cooperate."

He could fight her. He could protest. She's not in the position to be bargaining. _She's_ the one who's bloody here, not him. But that would take more time than Castiel wants to spare. "Fine."

Miss Bevell pushes away from the table on wobbly legs. She's pale, her face almost white.

"Come this way."

She shoves the door to the lab open, and steps out into the hall. Castiel follows her, trying to hide his limp. The urge to grab at the walls to keep himself upright is almost undeniable. But Lucifer is behind him, and Castiel won't submit himself to showing that much weakness.

They pass several other men and women as they cross through the building, but Miss Bevell waves off their questions. Though she can't stay their gawking.

When they stop in front of a door a few minutes later, and Miss Bevell uses a keycard and a large key to open the locks, the space they step into isn't a cell. It's some sort of interrogation room. The air is stiff with heat and faintly humid, enough that Castiel grimaces with discomfort.

There's a mirror on the far wall, and Castiel flicks his eyes away before he can catch sight of his reflection. Or his wings.

And there, sitting pinned to one side of the only table in the room with his back to him, is Sam. There's another man on the other side of the table, who gets to his feet as they enter.

"Miss Bevell?" he asks, wary eyes landing on Castiel. The question there is obvious. "What's going on? What happened to you?"

"Get a team here." Miss Bevell says by way of explanation. Her teeth are gritted, like she's trying to speak clearly through pain. " _Now."_

The man pulls a phone from his pocket.

Castiel stumbles forward, having to grab at the edge of the table to stop himself from collapsing. His fingers grip hard enough at the metal he's slightly worried he'll topple it. He doesn't.

"Sam," Castiel says. Sam's head is tipped forward, resting on his chest. His hair is slick against the sides of his face. Nothing appears to be outwardly wrong with him. Nothing to explain the blood beneath Lucifer's fingers. His shirt is covered in some sort of black-red substance, fresh enough that it's still not completely dry. It smells like blood, but also rot.

Castiel reaches out a hand, tentatively touching Sam's skin. It's cold like death.

"Sam," Castiel repeats, shaking him gently. Sam's head lolls, but he doesn't wake.

"Is he unconscious?" Miss Bevell sounds more annoyed than concerned.

"Yes." Castiel says, irritated. He pats Sam's face, but it doesn't help. The hunter has been swallowed inside unconsciousness, and nothing Castiel does now is going to help that. What, Castiel wonders darkly, did Lucifer do?

"Mr. Davies, send someone for Mr. Winchester as well." Miss Bevell says.

"No." Castiel protests. He looks up at the woman, ignoring Lucifer standing behind her, jaw clenched. "I'll take him."

Miss Bevell snorts with laughter, pulling her broken hand close. "If you think that I'm going to let the two of you remain together with your history, you must think me insane."

"I—"

" _No."_

"Miss Bevell," Mr. Davies says, his voice is soft, "it's been a long week for both of them. There's no harm in letting the halo take him."

"' _No harm_?'" Miss Bevell scoffs. A "please" lingers on the edge of his tongue, but he refuses to speak it. He will not beg this woman.

"Miss Bevell," Davies repeats, in the same calming tone. Miss Bevell's teeth grit with obvious distaste, but she hisses out a "fine." Davies nods, and moves towards Sam, pulling a set of keys from his suit coat. Castiel shifts, watching carefully as the man releases first the handcuffs, then the bicep straps before moving to his feet.

Sam's body slumps forward without the forced support, but Castiel catches him, wrapping his arms around his chest and holding him. It takes him a moment to switch his grip from the strained awkwardness of before to something more comfortable for both of them, but Castiel stands up, and grips Sam tightly, as though his strength alone will keep him from harm. It doesn't, and it hasn't.

So the words he wants to say he leaves unspoken: _I've got you._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Carrying


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: PTSD. More torture. I'm not sure that isn't gonna be up here until we're done, haha. XD

* * *

It takes hours before Dean comes across Wanna-Be-Gang-Member in the security footage of the Kansas City airport, and he almost misses it. His gaze has focused to the center of the screen and glazed out at some point during the long hours he's been screening through this, so it takes until the older man is hobbling away that Dean recognizes that he was there at all.

Suddenly fueled by movement, Dean leans forward, legs dropping to the ground from where they were propped on the desk. An ancient librarian glances up from the books she's shelving to cast him a long warning look, and not her first one. Dean resists the urge to give her the finger and returns to the computer screen.

His fingers smack against the spacebar to pause the video, then he rewinds until he sees Wanna-Be-Gang-Member step up into view. He's dressed in a different pair and style of clothing-they're cleaner-and he's wearing a baseball cap. An attempt at incognito that Dean privately finds ridiculous. You don't look like a different person with a hat on, you just look like yourself, but wanting to avoid sunburn.

Wanna-Be-Gang-Member is also considerably cleaner shaven.

Dean follows his progress around the airport, looking for the British woman he mentioned. The gender, at least, didn't change, so he's going to assume it actually _was_ a woman.

Wanna-Be-Gang-Member really got around before leaving on his plane. Dean sees him slip at least ten wallets, two watches, one person's smoothie, and no less than six phones.

Dean realizes that it's not really a surprise the man was so worried about going back to prison. Whatever attempt his parole officer made at instilling the fear of God into him clearly didn't stick.

"Changed man, my butt," Dean mutters under his breath, rubbing at the lower half of his face.

"Shh." The librarian hisses towards him, finger pushed against her lips. Glasses hang precariously on the edge of her nose.

Dean's hands flick up a little in annoyance. There's a group of teenagers loudly complaining about an English project they don't want to research for off to his right somewhere. Dean said four words, and _he's_ the one she goes after? Old people and their selective hearing.

As much as silence claws at his insides, the background hum of people behind him doesn't offer the usual comfort. It's almost grating, listening to them function, moving, existing like the world didn't almost end less than a fortnight ago.

But that's what he wanted, isn't it? That they'd all continue to be ignorant and live.

He pulls his gaze down, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He hits play again.

When Wanna-Be-Gang-Member has boarded a plane, Dean rewinds and watches the footage again. He catalogs the man's victims, looking for anyone who stands out. He has to re-play the clip twice more before he settles in on a blonde woman walking hurriedly away from a restroom being cleaned, joined later by a dark-haired man. Both of them move for the private hangers.

Wanna-Be-Gang-Member emerges from that same hall a minute later, drying off a soapy phone with the edge of his shirt. When Dean zooms, he sees the make and model of Cas's. Dean's fingers flex anxiously.

"Okay." He murmurs. _Okay._

He ignores the hissed " _shh!"_ thrown toward him.

Dean switches from hunting Wanna-Be-Gang-Member across the airport, instead following the blonde lady and her companion. And her other companions. As they make their way across the airport, they're joined by no less than five. A few bulky guys who could easily be pro-wrestlers or cliché biker gang members save tattoos, and another woman. Asian. Short.

As they move towards a hanger, the first guy turns and looks directly at the camera. He pulls something from his suit's pocket and points it up towards the screen. Dean feels both exasperated and annoyed by this. _Don't shoot a gun in the middle of an airport, you freakin-that was not a gun._ He doesn't know what the man did, but the screen flares a bright blue instead of black and cracking. Almost as if it just crashed.

It wasn't a gunshot. More like a laser.

Dean taps at the screen, fast-forwarding, hoping, praying. He needs to know what plane they got onto if he's going to track their flight. The blue lingers, stretching on for well over an hour when Dean starts skipping ahead. _C'mon, TSA. Nobody ruled this as weird?_

Somebody must've flicked an on/off switch. Reset the freakin' things.

When the screens pulse back to life again, showing real feed, the time stamp puts it at over three hours since the last time he saw the Brits. They'd have already left on their flight. They could have landed at a nearby city for all he knows. The FBI and CIA or whatever the TSA reports to probably has their hands all over this now.

Which means he can't storm into the airport demanding the flight plans without raising a few questioning eyebrows. He doesn't have time to get arrested. And if they went to this much work to cover their tracks, then he has his doubts they didn't already take their flight from the airports data.

Dean runs a hand through his stiff hair, shaking his head. This isn't supernatural. This isn't something that leaves behind a trail because of their nature or need to eat. They're just humans. And Dean doesn't know what to do. He doesn't even have proof they _have_ his brother or Cas. All he knows is that Brit lady had the phone. She could have stolen it off of someone else again. Then he'd be looking for someone else beyond her, and he'll have to start this whole process again.

And round and round in circles he goes. A roundabout. He just ends to find the exit.

His frustration feels like a palpable thing, sitting in his lap.

He blows out a sigh between his teeth, then pulls his phone from his pocket and rewinds the video back to the bathroom hallway. It's the clearest shot of the blonde he can find. He lifts his phone up in front of the screen and waits until the camera focuses before he takes a picture of the computer screen. It's a little murky, but he can make out enough.

He closes the tabs, and stands up. A low headache is throbbing in the back of his skull from lack of nutrients, a mild hangover, and being forced to stare so long at the computer screen with little breaks. He pushes his forehead for a moment, grinding his teeth together. When he can keep his balance, he turns away from the computer desks and starts to walk toward the exit.

He pulls out his phone and texts the picture to Jody, then a few other hunters he's pretty sure aren't trying to kill him, and, after some reluctance, Crowley.

The hand that slaps against his shoulder nearly topples him. Dean's spatial awareness snaps back from whatever pillar it was hiding behind and he's gripping the hand by the wrist before he's even looked up.

"Hey, Winchester," Oren smiles, voice nasal heavy. "I think we've gotta talk."

Dean surprises a curse. He tightens his grip slightly on the hunter's wrist, shifting his other hand to stuff his phone inside his jacket and wrap around his 1911. "Nice face additive. Let me guess, 'it's just a phase.'"

Oren pulls him closer, and Dean feels the barrel of a gun press against his stomach. His muscles tighten by reflex and his jaw shifts. Gut shot. Painful, but not always lethal. Surgery recovery would be a pain, though. "Let's take this outside."

"Afraid of the librarians?"

Oren shoves him towards the exit harshly, not bothering to offer a response to that. Dean stumbles towards it because he's not really getting a choice elsewise. Oren keeps a hand on his shoulder, and pushes him through the sliding doors. They're the kind that you pretty much have to kiss before the sensor acknowledges you're there, so Dean is nearly rammed head-first into the glass.

Once in the parking lot, Oren directs him towards a jeep and truck parked side by side, stuffed into the corner of the parking lot. His buddy is there, two other guys, and a woman who must be in her late sixties and barely over four foot eleven. She is, ironically, also the one holding the biggest gun.

All of them are armed to the teeth, and looking about as happy to see him as they would a large, ugly snake. Oren all but throws him into the middle of the little group, and Dean stumbles, but keeps himself upright. He looks up and gets a faceful of holy water.

_No-don't-dont-no._

His skin doesn't steam. It doesn't even prickle. It's just water.

_It's just water._

The panic that swims through his skin at the contact doesn't feel the same. Ever since the Mark, since Metatron stabbed him, there are days that he's not sure that he won't react to it. _Something in me broke, and it never healed. It's still fractured. Like a spiked gear, spinning and spinning, scraping up and bloodying everything as it does._

Dean wipes the water from his face with the edge of his jacket's sleeve. He uses the action to take a second to gather himself. Clench his hands before they betray him with a tremble. "Not a demon." He grouses, forcing as much real annoyance as he can into the tone. "Or a shapeshifter. Or whatever else you're thinking. Just human."

 _I think_ , he leaves unsaid. At this point, he doesn't know anymore. Humans don't walk away from death several times. They don't crawl out of hell. They don't...are angel vessels even a hundred percent human for that matter?

"Ha!" the Hispanic woman exclaims and spits with venom. "iNo lo creo, demonio!"

Dean's gaze flickers towards Oren for a moment. His Spanish isn't great, but enough that he gets the gist of her exclamation. He looks back at the woman, "Not a demon," he repeats, and rises to his full height. The woman's large assault rifle follows him up. Dean releases the inside of his cheek. "So. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well," one of the new men says with a heavy Spanish accent. "Where do we even start? Dean Winchester, showing up in a town like this. Practically giving yourself up."

 _I wasn't aware that there was a price on my head._ Dean tongue twists around inside his mouth for a moment, unhappy. Furious. "It's Detroit." Dean points out dryly, shifting his hand slowly towards his gun.

"Where's your hermano?" the man asks. "Or the ángel?"

"Gotta make this a bloodbath?" He allows the disgust to seep into his tone. "Right. That's very noble of all of you."

The barrel of the woman's rifle smacks against his face. Dean's face is whipped to the side and he lifts up a hand to his split cheek. Blood pools into the inside of his mouth. Bitter and metallic as he swallows it compulsively. The woman shouts something in Spanish that he doesn't pick up more than a few garbled words of, but it's pretty obvious it wasn't meant as a compliment.

Gah. For an old lady, she can swing hard.

"Abuela!" One of the men exclaims. Dean looks at the woman through his fingers. _Grandmother?_ Is he serious?

Dean wipes the blood away. "Look, I get it. You're pissed. You have every right to be. But me and Sam-we were only trying to fix the messes, okay?"

"The messes you started. How is it," Oren's voice is slick, "that we went _centuries_ without much of an incident, and then suddenly it's one apocalypse after another in less than a decade? What strings do you and your brother pull over fate? What demon do you pray to?"

_What?_

Dean hesitates for a moment, not because it's true, but because he honestly doesn't know how to answer that. "...None? I don't know. I think we're just really unlucky."

"You think this is funny?" Oren's buddy from the diner scoffs, looking trigger happy.

Dean didn't realize he'd smiled until he said something. He drops it. "No. It's not. No."

"Careful. You don't have anyone here to watch your smartmouth for you." Oren seethes.

Dean flinches.

Everyone here looks ready to shoot him. And they aren't just waiting for Sam. If they'd wanted him, they would have demanded Dean get in contact with him, so they can finish them off together. But they aren't doing anything, and obviously unhappy about it.

Which means…

"You're waiting for someone." Dean realizes out loud. The hunters share a look, and Dean's eyebrows raise slightly. A group of homicidal-happy hunters get together, but have a boss for their little gang? He could laugh. "Who? How many freakin' hunters are in Detroit? You guys all called each other and decided that a good way to end the afternoon was an execution?"

"We're removing the threat," Oren corrects. "We're making the world safe again. Just like shooting a wolf full of silver."

_When did I become a part of that list? Before hell or after?_

The smile that tugs on his lips is cold. Nevermind the fact that in the midst of apocalypse after apocalypse the only person to ever lend them a consistent hand was Bobby. If they're so sick of them, why didn't they do anything to help in the middle of it? "Of course." His chin juts up, "Who's missing?"

"That would be me." Dean's head snaps up at the sound of the familiar voice, and he feels his eyes widen some. "Sorry I'm late. Got caught up in traffic."

" _Garth?"_ Dean can't keep the disbelief from his tone.

"Hey, Dean." Garth's voice is cheerful. The following punch to the face is not. Dean tumbles to the ground, the world spinning, blood rushing in his ears. His body makes one last, weak attempt at staying awake, then succumbs to the awaiting blackness.

000o000

When he wakes, he's completely alone in a near-perfect pitch black. His shoulders ache and his breath feels too short and hot.

Dean flicks his gaze up and around, trying to breathe, but it feels like he's trying to drag air inside of a vacuum. Anxiety is pulsing through his chest in time with his heartbeat. _Danger, danger, danger._ Dean inhales. _Why is it so hard to breathe?_ He pushes his lips together, and realizes that his arms are suspended over his head. He can't scrape his toes against the ground, which must mean that he's suspended over it.

Dean grabs hold of the chains wrapped around his wrists and pulls up, alleviating the pressure. He gasps in and out, desperate.

Okay. Alright. It's fine. It's fine. It's- _son of a-_

The angle he grabbed at is awkward, and his left hand slips. The pressure immediately returns, like being punched in the gut. Dean readjusts his grip and pulls, keeping himself up. He can't breathe. _He can't breathe._ It's a waiting game. The more the slips, the further he'll suffocate. He's going to die. In some dank basement or whatever run-of-the-mill backwater location the hunters found, suspended, and-

Stop it.

Calm down.

He keeps gripping. _Think, you idiot._ He admonishes himself. He's been in worse situations than this and pulled through just fine. He just...just needs to think.

If he's suspended, that means that the room is probably tall. Dean isn't touching at nine feet like Sam, but he's not short. If the room is tall enough to hang him from, that lowers the places he could be considerably. _Okay, great,_ a soft voice despairs in the back of his head, _you're going to know where you die. How is that helpful?_ Dean shakes the thoughts off.

He's not going to die.

 _No one is coming for you. You're all alone, Dean Winchester. Tell me,_ Alastair's voice is a soft purr in the back of his mind, _how does it feel?_

This is what they get? For saving the world from freakin' angels and their Apocalypse, then the Leviathans and Amara? A world that freakin' _Chuck_ left in their hands, because that's a responsibly everyone wants. He's left to die. Killing him, because he's the punchline to so many of fate's jokes. This is just...awesome. A part of him, vindictive and furious, wants to see this group of ragtag idiots survive half the things he, Sam and Cas have and walk away with their sanity intact. Or just walk away, period.

Time scrapes by, slowly. Hours, minutes, days, he doesn't know.

He can't come up with anything to fix this, and just hangs there.

His hands are shaking. He's panicking, and he doesn't-

His grip slides slightly, and Dean scrambles for a desperate moment until he can regain control. The longing that washes through him for the Mark's otherworld strength is stark, but not new. It's been close to a year since he was released. He should be over this by now. But his mind circles around the _need_ over and over again. How awful, but beautiful it was.

_Stop. Think. How do you get out from suspension?_

Someone cuts you down.

_You don't have that._

_(All alone.)_

Then you die. He doesn't know! He can't break through chains with human strength. He can't cut through them unless he has a saw or acidic acid in his back pocket, which he must have left in his other pair of pants. It's not even manacles wrapped around his wrists, just a length of chain. He could gnaw at rope if that's what it came down to. He could pick manacles. Break his thumb and slip out. But this is just...

_You're going to die._

_Stop._

Time keeps ticking.

Death by suffocation. Dean grips the chains, his left hand's thumb snapping when it gets caught inside a link when he slips the next time. Dean doesn't have the breath to spare for a scream. Instead, he moans low in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut. _How does that feel?_

A broken thumb can help you break free of handcuffs. It does not provide the same relief with chain.

Garth was there. What the heck was Garth doing there? He punched him, knocked him unconscious. He left him here. _You don't know that._ Yeah. Sure. Given his current track record since leaving Kansas, it's not too far out of reach. Garth was retired, living out some apple pie life, as much as he could being bitten. He's dying. And...and who is going to find Sam and Cas? Who is...who's...

Dean pulls up. Air makes his head a little clearer. The shaking doesn't stop. His thumb aches dully, but there's not anything he can do to help with the pain. Helplessness is a frustratingly familiar feeling.

"Cas," Dean rasps out, his hands straining. He can't remember praying this much since Purgatory. "Cas, I don't think...think I'm going to...to make it...sorry. Sorry."

_You're all alone, Dean Winchester._

_Tell me._

_How does it feel?_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Isolation.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pretty sure this is the shortest chapter I have written in about four years.
> 
> Warnings: PTSD.

* * *

For a long time, Sam doesn't move.

He's not exactly sure where he is or how he got there, but he doesn't have the energy to care, so he doesn't. He knows he's laying down. The room is cold. His throat hurts. He feels hungry. His body aches. A deep, bone-gnawing cold has settled into his limbs, causing everything to be stiff and painful. Air seeping in and from his lungs burns his nostrils.

He doesn't know how long he remains here. In the in-between state. Where he's not thinking, but he's not gone.

He doesn't even know what it is that grasps hold of his subconscious mind and pushes him out, back into awareness, but the soft noise of pain is what keeps him there. It's the voice of someone he knows. But not, oddly enough, his own.

Sam hesitantly pushes the borders of his body, forcing tired eyelids open and squinting into the space. The lighting is poor, but familiar. The long cracks in the concrete above him. He's spent hours staring up at this ceiling, memorizing it. This is the cell he's been occupying since he was taken by the London Chapterhouse.

The sight surprises him more than he cares to say.

He'd expected bars.

There's another noise, soft and muted, as if an attempt to stifle it is being made and Sam slowly pushes himself up onto one elbow. His body feels weak and emaciated, like he's been drawn down to bone.

He looks around the room, and his eyes settle on the figure sitting next to the bench he's been propped on. "C-Cas?" Sam's voice is hesitant. He feels the part. Only guessing. The set of heavy black wings sticking from the angel's back weren't there the last time he saw him. He didn't even know that Cas could make his wings corporeal.

"Sam." Cas's head twists around, body already straining to push up. The moment he tries to put any weight on his right leg, the angel's entire body shudders and he collapses down to his knee.

"Cas," Sam manages to find the strength to push himself up all the way. His hands are shaking, and his teeth click together. He's not wearing warm enough clothing. He needs socks. And shoes. And a jacket. He's going to freeze to death. "Cas, what…?"

"I'm fine," Cas pants, his face gray. He looks nauseous. He hunches over, and slaps a palm down on his leg, just above the knee.

"C-Cas," Sam murmurs, swinging his legs over the side of the bench. He almost topples from the weight change, and has to grab hold of the bench with both hands to hold himself in place. The metal is cold, and his fingers ache to bone at the contact. "C-Cas..."

"It's fine," Cas doesn't look at him, hand beginning to push as if he's trying to spread poison out. "It's fine," he repeats, as if trying to make himself believe it.

His wings shift along his spine as if restless, and Sam's attention is momentarily lost in watching them. Wings. _Wings._ Cas's are big, easily a fourteen foot wingspan from tip to tip, maybe bigger. Large enough that they'd drag behind him while he walked. The feathers don't look fluffy, or even soft. Kind of frizzy, actually, but hard enough to scrape open something. They're deep black, but scraped red over the edges.

There's a thin layer of burned skin stretched across the bones, spreading out and forming a loose outline of what they must have looked like. The skin is holy, patched in some areas with scars that look like stitches, faintly translucent in others, thickest around the back. The area it's attached to the spine looks like it's been sewn on. The scar tissue is almost disturbing in it's vibrancy.

What feathers are there are towards the top, around where the bone would be. It looks like the healthiest part of the wings, and probably is if the feathers are still attached and mostly whole after three years.

They're as breathtaking as they are sorrowful.

Cas isn't going to fly on those. Sam wonders what they looked like in their prime. When there were just feathers, no burn scars. No thin, stretched skin attempting to replicate a memory of something lost.

Cas must notice his staring, because his wings draw in towards his spine.

"S-s-sorry." Sam stutters. He's shaking with the cold. Cas doesn't say anything, which only makes him feel worse. He blows out a breath and wraps his arms around himself. His fingers are still freezing, so it doesn't help any, only cements the chill inside his bones. "You're—you're...wh-what's wrong? W-with your leg?"

Cas glances towards the area as if he'd forgotten it was hurting. Sam realizes then the extent of how much his staring must have bothered him. There is, though Sam doesn't know why, a reason Cas has never shown them his wings. He's given it thought, always been curious, but he's never asked.

"Nothing."

_"C-Cas."_

Cas's brow draws together. "Are you cold? Why are you shaking?"

"D-don't," Sam closes his eyes for a moment in frustration, willing his body to start functioning like a normal human being. But it balks at the echo of Lucifer's fingers clawing at his soul, and the reminder only brings up a more violent shudder. "D-don't change t-the s-subject."

Cas frowns. He starts to move forward some, obviously concerned, but Sam lifts up a hand to stop him. The memory of the agony on Cas's face is still fresh. He shifts forward, scooting along the bench until Cas is within touching distance.

Cas takes this opportunity to promptly press a hand against Sam's forehead. He barely suppresses a flick of his eyes up in annoyance, and smacks the angel's hand away as gently as he can. "S-stop. I'm f-fine."

"No," Cas disagrees, "you're obviously not."

"Let—let me see-see the wound." Sam requests, rubbing up the length of his arms for a moment. It doesn't help. The cold is coming from inside, not an exterior source. There is no way for him to thaw it.

"Sam—"

"C-Castiel. I'm s-serious." It's hard to sound the part, when his voice is clattering and hoarse, but something must show on his face because Cas's eyes squint slightly before he makes a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat.

His fingers wrap around the edge of the bench and he hauls himself up until he's seated beside Sam. Then he takes hold of the end of the loose pair of blue pants and rolls it up to his knee and a little beyond. Sam sucks in a sharp breath. There's a wound there, covered over with skin, but scarred anyway. A bullet wound. It looks weeks old, but it can't be. The skin around it is a spider web of dark red and deep blue veins, like an infected bruise.

It's not healing. Why wouldn't it have healed by now? He's seen Cas recover from bullet wounds in seconds. He knows that Cas's grace is restricted, but healed skin should indicate that it's getting some better, shouldn't it?

Sam lifts out a shaking hand and, as gently as he can, prods the bruised skin with two fingers. Cas flinches, and his leg bounces up slightly as he attempts to escape Sam's hand. His wings shift restlessly. Sam withholds a grimace and murmurs an apology. The skin is hot to the touch. But that might not mean much. Sam isn't exactly a good judge of normal temperature right now.

His other hand wraps around his stomach as he feels the phantom fingers in his chest.

Clawing, holding, pushing, _touching._

No.

_No._

_Just breathe._

Sam forces his attention to return to the wound. The skin isn't rough, like it would be if there was still a penetrating object. So he doesn't understand why it looks like someone broke his kneecap, shoved the skin through bone, and then told Cas to fix it through sheer willpower alone.

"Wh-what happened?" Sam asks. _Warm up,_ he demands of himself. _This is not the first time this has happened._ Cas looks away, dropping the pant leg to conceal the injury. It's not bleeding. It just seems to be in some sort of in-between state. "C-Cas?"

"Your devil trap bullets—the Men of Letters have something similar for angels."

Sam feels his face drain of color. He looks back towards where the wound was. "Is-is it still in your l-leg?" What sort of idiot would leave a bullet to fester? The Men of Letters have made some attempt at keeping them alive, but they draw the line at actually helping Cas? What do they think—!?

"No."

Oh.

Wait.

Sam's brow draws together, "Then…?"

"I don't know," Cas still isn't looking at him. "The bullet was burned inside of holy fire. Not even archangels can cross it. It serves as a sort of barrier against our grace. I—I don't know what...something appears to be wrong. It's not healing. I don't know if it's because my grace is restrained, or something else."

Sam's gaze flicks towards the collar, studying it with more intensity than his previous cursory glances. The only way to get it off seems to be some sort of latch in the back with a card scanner. Nothing he can remove with the tools at their disposal. Which adds up to clothing, fingernails, and Cas's wings.

He frowns. "How long ago-ago did this happen?"

Cas's lips press together and his hand reaches out to touch Sam's forehead again. Sam submits with gritted teeth. "Sam. Something is wrong. You shouldn't be this cold."

Sam bites on the inside of his lip. He knows that. It just...doesn't matter. It's not like he can do anything about it. He knows that from firsthand experience. The only thing that will help is time and patience. A few hours from now, it will be like nothing happened. Which is somehow always worse. At least when his body is reacting, it feels like it was _real._

Happened. Like the fingers and—

No.

_Don't think about that._

"It's—it's okay. Y-You can't do anything," Sam tries for a reassuring smile. Judging by the way that Cas's face twists in disapproval, it doesn't accomplish anything. He pulls harder on his lower lip and closes his eyes as he shakes his head softly.

"Sam," Cas's voice has a level of patience and steadiness that only instills him with dread, "what did Lucifer do?"

Sam's stomach drops. He feels sick. _You know? You know he's here? What he's done?_ Strangely, he feels humiliated. He's supposed to fight back. He wasn't supposed to freeze. To fall back. To sit there and do nothing but beg. Cas _knows?_

No. _No._

_Evade, evade, evade._

"What-what are you doing here?" Sam asks. It takes him a second to realize why. He's only been locked with Cas once since this started, and that was because he was dying of dehydration— _I came for you, Sam—_ and the Men of Letters were too lazy to do anything about it. But that's beside the point. As far as he was aware, they were making an attempt to keep them apart.

The slightest quirk up of Cas's lip is the only answer he gets for a long second. Cas's fingers flex and he releases something close to a snort of laughter. It's a little strange, if he's being honest. "I, uh, convinced them to let us stay together."

Sam's eyebrows make real effort to reach his hairline. " _H-How?"_

A shade replaces the slight smug laughter and Cas releases a soft sigh, wings drawing in towards his spine further, like Cas can melt them inside the skin. Sam wonders if he can't. Their appearance doesn't seem to be the angel's choice. "Miss Bevell wanted something. I gave it to her, and in return asked to monitor you. I believe she's making a bit more effort to keep you alive. She agreed."

It feels like half the story, but Sam doesn't really want to ask.

So they just sit in silence for a long moment.

 _Do you know where Lucifer is now,_ is what he wants to question. And the more pressing, but always relevant one: _When is he coming back?_ He can play this game. The momentary relief. But it _always_ ends, and Sam _always_ ends up back there. It's a circle. An endless, hopeless loop he wishes he knew how to break.

Sam shifts slightly, opening his mouth to push a question out, but is halted before he can get a sentence out when Cas's hands shove up to push against his temples and he inhales a sharp sound of pain.

"C-Cas?" Sam grabs his shoulder. "C-Cas? What's—"

There's this sensation that hits him. Like something grabbing his ribcage and attempting to turn it three-sixty inside his chest without breaking skin. He can't breathe for the longest moment, and his eyes widen. This is familiar. The gut-ripping, aching _nothing._

Oh, God, please. Dean. Dean is dying. Or dead.

Cas sways slightly and Sam reaches out a hand to grab a fistful of his shirt, attempting to keep him from tumbling face-first to the floor. What is going on? Why is he…? Cas inhales sharply, like he's breathing for the first time in hours. He looks up at Sam, his eyes wide. "Sam, Dean—"

"H-he's dying." Sam interrupts, keeping a steadying hand on the angel. A shudder washes through him, and Sam's teeth press together in frustration. _Stop shivering. You're not in the middle of a blizzard._ "I know. I-I don't…"

Cas's expression flickers with genuine confusement. "How do you know that?"

And Sam feels stuck for a second. Tripped. Ever since Dean was killed in the mystery spot, Sam has sprouted thousands of theories for this. It wasn't until after they went to heaven that Sam felt like he'd found an answer. Because for the longest time now, he'd just...sort of assumed that whatever _pull_ this was, was related to the fact he and Dean are soulmates. It made sense. In his head, at least. He knows very well how deeply pain from the soul can resonate throughout his entire being, it just…if he and Dean are connected there...

But Cas would know that.

He's the one that _told_ them.

But he's confused.

This…

What?

The twist resonates again, and Sam bites on his tongue to keep himself quiet and the questions at bay—not the time, not the place—and instead asks as steadily as he can with his fumbling tongue, "Did he...did he p-pray?"

Cas's eyes close for a moment, the shadow of pain and something slightly haunted on his face. "Yes. He said he was sorry."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Alt. 5, Stoic whumpees.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some blood.

* * *

Dean's feet hit the ground, and he crumples. First to his knees, then tumbles onto his side at the release of pressure around his chest. He heaves in gasping breaths until he's coughing, throat torn and hoarse.

His fingers claw against hard, wet cement. It smells like blood. And wet hair.

"Shh. _Shh._ Be quiet," a voice demands in a tone barely above a whisper. A hand touches his shoulder and Dean flinches away, vision blurring. Which makes him realize that there _is_ something to blur in the first place. Because there's a blinding light above him, like a phone flashlight. "Sorry, sorry. Just take in some breaths, alright? It will get easier."

Dean breathes in deeply. Coughing. Gasping.

_I'm going to suffocate._

His muscles feel weak. He can't fight when the faceless voice reaches out and grabs his wrists. There's a slight noise, metal scraping against something sharp, maybe a dagger, then the chains wrapped around his wrists in make-shift manacles fall loose. "There we go, it's fine, okay?" The voice seems to be less for himself, and more for the speaker.

He doesn't have the breath for words. So he doesn't say anything, just stares. He has to squint into the dark and see past the blinding light pointed in his face before he can spot the faint glow of yellow eyes. Werewolf eyes.

Garth.

His body slumps with relief despite how his mind resists this. _He left you here._ He's going to hit him. When he gets the strength.

"What...what the… _?"_ Dean pants, then swears loudly. He shoves Garth's hands away and hates how he immediately feels spent from the action. His wrists are burning and the pain racing through his shoulders causes tears to sting the edges of his vision. His entire upper body feels like he's been put through a meat grinder. He hasn't ached like this in a long time.

_Didn't used to hurt at all with the Mark._

_Could have fought for hours and hours and not feel a thing._

"Sorry." Garth repeats, and the haze of yellow fades slightly from Dean's peripheral. Did he just...transform? Within the proximity of hunters? What kind of _idiot-!_ "I'd've been down here sooner, but it took an age to get them gone. Had to convince them to go out for drinks. Said I'd kick out any death throes from you."

Which means that the hunters must think him dead.

He doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed.

Garth grabs his arm, starting to pull him up. Dean bites down hard on his tongue to withhold a scream. _Pain is just weakness leaving the body,_ he tells himself. It was something John used to say to them when they were younger. Dean always thought it was crap, especially after the Pit.

"Alright, up with you. We need to go." There's real worry in Garth's voice. "We're on a time limit."

Dean smacks his boney fingers away. "No," he chokes. He hardly recognizes his voice.

" _Dean."_

He feels like a wounded animal. Scared, and hurting, afraid to accept comfort. Biting the hand that feeds him.

"You left...me here," Dean pulls his arms close to his chest and starts to struggle to his feet. He sways, and the word spins around him merrily. Garth's fingers wrap around his bicep to support, iron in their strength. "You…"

"I can explain." _Of course he can. Everyone can. Explanation after pointless explanation._ "But not now, okay? I don't expect 'em to be back soon, but getting a few hundred miles between us seems like the best idea."

What?

"You're…" maybe it's the lack of oxygen, maybe it's something else, but Dean's brain seems to be having trouble catching up with Garth's intention. He feels dizzy and sick, like he's almost drowned. But there isn't any water to cough up. Nothing but empty. His head hurts. He can't breathe in the space allotted to him by his still too-tight lungs.

Garth starts to pull him towards something, and Dean nearly kisses the floor harshly when his legs won't support his weight. Garth almost drops his phone in an effort to catch him. His voice has lost some of it's patience. "This is a rescue, nincompoop. _Come on._ "

Oh.

"Needs some work." Dean mutters in protest, but locks his knees and forces himself to hobble along beside the scrawny man. Garth wraps one of Dean's arms around his shoulders-freakin' _ow-_ and hauls him towards an old wooden staircase Dean hadn't noticed beforehand. Garth shoves him towards them.

They creak beneath his weight, and Dean's teeth grits. He hates wooden stairs. Termites and rot have a nasty habit of making them snap unexpectedly.

"Can't you just say thank you?"

"I...nearly _died,_ Garth."

"I was a little later than I'd hoped, I'll admit that."

Dean suppresses a scoff, his body instead choosing that moment to cough harshly, which doesn't help his growing migraine in the slightest. A low moan is pulled from him.

They reach the top of the staircase, and Garth shoves open a door to reveal a kitchen that wouldn't look out of place in the late nineteenth century. It doesn't seem like it's been lived in much for years, but it's not dusty or moldy enough that he can say it's been completely abandoned. If this house is from that time period, then the room they just crawled from was probably the cellar, albeit a tall one. Maybe they hung meat from the ceiling. As disgusting that that thought is, it would explain what he was hanging from.

To Dean's private relief, the house is barren of all life save himself and the werewolf trying to drag him through it. He doesn't have the willpower to fight it. Or even a reason. Garth may have put him here, but he's trying to fix it. The werewolf leads him through the kitchen to a large dining room then through a backdoor.

There's thick forest surrounding them and a heavy downpour that immediately soaks through his clothing and smears down his face. Garth still doesn't let him go, hauling him towards the front. The house-more of an ancient cabin, honestly-can't be more than three or four rooms. Tiny, all things considered. He spots the outhouse about a hundred feet out back before Garth pulls him around a corner.

And there, sitting on the dirt driveway, is the Impala.

Dean feels incredulous for a long moment, his feet stumbling over themselves. "They stole my car?" he asks before he can stop himself. They _touched_ his car? He's going to kill them. No quarter, no regret. Just blood and rage then nothing.

"Actually that was me," Garth says, somewhat sheepishly, "I figured you'd rather it was here than unintended at the library."

"I…" Dean feels torn.

Garth pats his shoulder in encouragement and pulls a set of keys from his jacket pocket. Baby's. Dean makes a move to grab them, but Garth yanks them back before he can even get his finger to graze them. He opens his mouth to protest, but Garth shakes his head. "You can't lift your arms above your head. Sorry, but you're not driving."

" _Garth."_ No one drives the Impala except him and Sam. And, on occasion, Cas.

Garth shoves the keys into the lock and opens the passenger door, gesturing for Dean to get in. Dean's fingers bounce against his leg in agitation. But common sense wins over any pride or disagreement he can conjure, and Dean clambers inside of the Chevy. His shoulders scream with protest as he maneuvers into place, and Dean is paralyzed for a moment as he tries to breathe.

The overwhelming pain passes to a throbbing ache, and Dean pulls the passenger door closed, biting back pants.

No one ever talks about how much it hurts to be suspended by your arms. Dean's seen dozens of movies where the character is only mildly discomforted, maybe rolls their shoulders, then carries on like nothing happened. Real life is rarely so picturesque.

Garth makes his way around the car, and slips into the driver's side. Dean rubs his wrists idly, then stops when he feels something wet. Grimacing, he pulls up the edge of his jacket's sleeves and sees deep gouges in the shape of chain links around the skin. They're bleeding, skin peeled back and raw.

"Oh, knew I smelled blood," Garth makes a noise, shoving the keys into the ignition. "You got a first-aid kit in the back?"

"Just drive."

"Don't want those to get infected."

" _Drive."_

Garth twists the keys and the Impala roars to life. He only fumbles with the gearshift once before backing out of the dirt driveway and turning them so they're facing the road. Dean leans forward until his forehead is pressed against the dashboard, letting the hum of the car reverberate inside his skull.

He doesn't know what this feeling is.

_(Tell me...how does it feel?)_

Shock? Relief? Disappointment?

He passes out before he can muddle through it.

000o000

About twenty minutes out from South Bend, Indiana, four hours after swinging by the motel to gather Dean's equipment together, Garth pulls over into the shoulder of the road. Dean is in some sort of in-between state of consciousness and the ever present black of sleep, and it takes until Garth is pulling open the passenger door that Dean realizes he stopped at all.

Dad would kill him for being so unaware of his surroundings.

Garth kneels down and sets the first aid kit he must have dragged out from the back and sets it down on the ground. He nudges Dean's knee with a bottle of open bear. Dean's head rolls towards him along the bench seat and he stares at the man for a moment.

"Is now really the time?" His voice slurs.

Garth doesn't answer, only nudging him again, and Dean sighs, reaching out an unsteady hand to take it from him. It's shaking and his fingers feel swollen; bending them makes him grimace. He only manages a few mouthfuls before he pulling back. His stomach twists in discomfort, and Dean realizes he has no idea when the last time he ate was.

Garth takes the bottle from him and takes a swig himself, rolling his shoulders. "Alright. _Alright._ Give me your hands."

Protest lost some hundred miles ago, Dean shifts slightly in the seat so he's facing the hunter, and lifts his heavy hands up for inspection. Garth rolls up his jacket's sleeves to his elbows and stares at the bloody incisions, lips pressed together. Huh. Those are a little worse than he thought.

"The blood loss is making you lethargic. Talk to me instead of going back to sleep, it'll help." Garth encourages, taking Dean's left hand and turning it. The imprint of the chains go from his wrists to nearly halfway down his forearm. Bloodstained. Only a few areas are still actively bleeding, which is better than nothing. He should have addressed this two hundred miles ago.

But putting distance between himself and the psycho hunters seemed more pressing.

Dean struggles for something to say. His brain is muddy, "How...did you know to come?"

Garth nods, pulling out a bottle of water. "You know the little old lady?" Dean makes a noise of acknowledgement. "She was a friend of my father's. 'Course, _he_ didn't know she was a hunter, but word got around to her that I was. Her grandson is practically my cousin at this point. Two of 'em are tough. I was in the area, and they called me to know they were gonna kill you. I figured that it was time for an intervention."

Dean's teeth press together tightly as Garth pours the water over the gashes. "Yeah. Thanks."

Garth hums. "Though I do have to ask. Where's Sam? We didn't leave him back there, did we?"

Dean shakes his head, swearing softly under his breath as Garth gently pats the wounds with a rag. "No. He's not in Detroit."

"Back in Kansas?"

"No."

Garth pauses for a moment, contemplating that. "Then where is he?"

Dean snorts softly, closing his eyes and shaking his head softly. "I don't know."

Two weeks, some days and hours, and Dean still has exactly squat. What is it going to take before he gets some sort of vague idea of where to start pouring his resources? Somewhere that's actually _useful._ Random people at an airport and vague locations of cells isn't giving him any more information than he started with.

"Huh." Garth intones. That's all he's got. _Huh?_ "That what you were doing in Detroit? Trying to find 'im?"

"Well I wasn't there for the people. Son of a-" Dean yanks his hand back sharply when Garth unexpectedly dumps some of the alcohol onto the wounds. The abrupt movement makes him vaguely dizzy, and he bites on the inside of his cheek in an effort to steady himself. " _Ow."_

Garth waits patiently until Dean lets him take the hand again. He dries it off with one of the make-shift rags he and Sam keep buried beneath the holy water. At some point, Sam decided that using old T-shirts wasn't the most sanitary thing. To appease his sibling, Dean stole and cut up several motel towels.

When it's dry, Garth pulls up antiseptic and smears it across the wounds. Dean flinches, releasing air harshly through his teeth.

"What leads do you have so far?"

Dean huffs darkly, closing his eyes and wishing that his headache would let up. "None? I don't know. I have a somewhat blurry picture of a British woman from an airport who had Cas's phone, but that's about it." Garth's hands still. The lack of movement drags his attention back, and Dean opens his eyes to squint at him. "What?"

Garth releases his lower lip, "I don't know...I still keep in contact with a few hunting buddies. Bess thinks it's good to be a part of the community, even if I'm not hunting anymore. It also keeps us apprised of anyone looking for a second chance. Though I've only told two other hunters about being bitten, besides you and Sam, that is. But the point is that I've heard a few of them mention being approached by a British organization, Men of Betters or something, about employment in the last few weeks."

 _Ha. Really?_ Dean's eyebrows raise. "The Men of Letters. They're all dead."

Abbadon made sure of that. With a smile on her face.

"Guess not." Garth secures a wad of gauze around Dean's wrist and begins to wrap it up the length of his forearm, covering the wounds. "You think the two are related?"

He...doesn't know. Two's a coincidence, three is proof. This is just...weird, but maybe… _maybe._

"Oh, I have no doubts about it." Dean jerks, hands trying to go for a weapon in movement that leaves him breathless and his vision slightly gray. Garth twists around, a .45 clutched in his grip and pointed towards the suited figure standing a few feet away from the Impala. Dean didn't even realize he was armed.

Crowley smiles. "Hello boys."

"Christo." Garth answers.

Crowley doesn't twitch, instead, he sighs. "Honestly, did no one ever explain to you that that only works on low-level demons? Why do you think the higher up the tree you get, the worse your basic tricks work?" Crowley looks up at Dean, then, as if sharing annoyance, "Who's this?"

"Garth." Garth says. "You know this guy, Dean?"

Unfortunately.

"His name is Crowley. A pain in the butt I've wanted to stab in the face for years."

More than half a decade. And yet, he keeps walking. Dean wonders about that sometimes.

"Love you, too." Crowley smirks faintly, but there's something in his gaze that seems slightly dead. "Put the gun down. It's not going to do anything against me. Frankly, you're embarrassing yourself."

Garth doesn't lower the weapon. Dean doesn't blame him.

Crowley rolls his eyes in exasperation, and lifts up his phone. "Got your message."

"So you decided to answer it in person?" Dean asks, biting on a laugh of incredulity. Crowley's head tips slightly, in a way that suggests he thinks Dean's an idiot. Dean's eyes flick up in annoyance. " _What?"_

"You sent it more than a day ago, Squirrel. I already answered. I decided to make an appearance when my demons saw you leave Detroit."

He...what?

It's been more than a _day_ since the library? He'd only assumed it was a handful of hours. How on earth has it been a day? He wasn't in the cellar that long. A couple of hours at most. Garth only knocked him unconscious, but unless they kept him drugged...and why would they wait before executing him?

Garth shifts slightly in front of him, rocking on his heels. Then he answers the unspoken question, "I stalled them. We went over a lot of different ways to kill you."

"That's sweet." Crowley says, voice dry. "Very thoughtful. Do you know anyone who hasn't tried to kill you, Dean?"

He bites on a wince. Of course he does. Jody and her girls, Donna. Other hunters. Victims. Police. But Sam has. And Cas. Crowley. What does that say about him, that everyone who knows him is trying to make him drop dead, but he won't?

Crowley's sneered _cockroach_ comes to mind.

"Do you?" Dean retorts.

"Touché. The woman's name is Toni Bevell. She works for the London Chapterhouse, the British division of the Men of Letters. Officially, she was in the States on business."

How is it, he wonders, that a demon that hates them has had more success in locating his brother and the angel than Dean has? He just wants to keep his family together. But how is he supposed to do that if a literal spawn of the Devil is better at it than he is?

"'Was'?" Garth questions.

Dean's stomach sinks. He hadn't caught that.

Crowley pockets his phone, looking somehow smug and frustrated. "Yes _was._ A few of my subjects say she landed in London two weeks ago and hasn't left since." Wait. _London._ London, _England?_ As in Europe? Across the Pacific, by plane, Europe?

_Crap._

"Sam and Cas are in _England?"_ Is torn from him, almost raggedly.

Crowley eyes him for a moment. "Appears so. But that's not even the best part."

Best part. How is that even a _good_ part? _Because you know where they are now, idiot._ Sure. It's not like London is an entire _island._ That won't take weeks to search. And if this is the Men of Letters, part of their skillset is _being_ incognito. None one noticed the Bunker for half a century. How is he supposed to find Sam and Cas in a place he's never even been? Especially one that's meant to be hidden? Dean's left the US a total of once, and that was for Scotland. With Sam. Five years ago.

"What would that be, then?" Dean asks.

Crowley's lips twitch up on a self-satisfied smile. "I have her number."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Blood loss.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gore, dissociation, non-consensual body modification, torture. (It's back! XD)

* * *

Sam falls asleep again, later, his body weirdly calm. The aching stopped a little over an hour after it began, and he and Cas reached the silent conclusion that Dean must be fine. (Sam prays to whatever's listening that he is. Because he can't...) Whatever crisis he was in the middle of must have been avoided. Sam knows what it feels like when Dean stops walking this earth. This wasn't like that.

When he wakes up, Cas is gone.

Sam feels the loss of his company like a physical wound. It's strange. But after all these endless days, having a familiar face was a relief he can't explain.

He's not as cold anymore, but his body still throbs dully and the memory of the fingers around his soul makes him curl in on himself and pull at his scalp in an effort to silence his thoughts.

They don't quiet. Only getting louder and louder, incessant and vicious in their ferocity.

Sam rolls over. He squeezes his eyes shut and eventually panics himself to sleep again. He wakes up, and food and water are sitting on a tray beside the door. He forces himself up to drink the water, but ignores the food, his stomach churning at the idea. It's been days since he last ate (he thinks it has, he doesn't know), but hunger pains have become a dull annoyance, not a pressing need. It's not the first time he's gone hungry in his life. It won't be the last.

Sam drags himself back to the bench. He lays down and stares at the wall. His head spins, his heart is heavy in his chest. He goes back to sleep.

Awake. Asleep. Awake, asleep. He drinks more water. Goes back to the welcoming black.

Unconsciousness serves as an escape, and he indulges in it greedily. It's tormented with nightmares, but that's nothing unusual. At least when he's in his head, he isn't here— _isn't where Lucifer is physically—_ and that's better. Sometimes.

Sam goes back to sleep.

He stops thinking.

He exists in third person.

He's numb. Cold. Nothing.

He doesn't see Cas, but he hears him murmur Sam's name. A hand touches his forehead. Something is pressed into his hand. Someone else takes it away.

A part of him recognizes that he has to get up. He has to keep fighting. Has to find a way to escape. Can't leave Cas here. The rest of him is done. He can't keep this up. He can't spin in endless circles, waiting for the next time he's going to get caught and pinned. Lucifer grabbed him, his soul. He held it. He left a wet, black, filmy residue, and Sam can't ever get that clean.

He's been lying to himself for years.

_You're dying inside, and you have been for a long time._

Sam squeezes his eyes shut. Thinking hurts. His head hurts. He doesn't want to breathe. _Nothing has changed. He can still pick me apart and read everything. Nothing has changed, nothing changed, nothing, nothing, nothing—_

He goes back to sleep.

000o000

Static, static, static.

Cas is screaming. The sort of noise you make when your lungs are being torn up through your throat. Ragged. Breathless. "Mercy, mercy—" he's gasping, blood spilling from his lips, down his face; pleading, praying, and nothing is stopping—

Black. Static.

Lucifer is watching from the edge of the room, eyes hard and arms folded across his chest. Despite his stoic appearance, Sam can tell he's enjoying this. How relaxed his shoulders are gives him away—

Static, static, static.

The blade lifts up. Cas struggles where he's bound to the table, but there's not enough leeway. Hands push down on his shoulders. Press against the base of his spine. The sword angles, another hand pulls up on Cas's wing—

Static.

The blade is halfway down, severing the limb from Cas's vessel's body—

Static.

Cas is sobbing—

Static.

There's blood everywhere, spilling from the open wounds, Cas's mouth—

Static. Pain.

Cas is screaming. Sobbing. Hoarse and mute. They keep cutting. Slicing. Tearing. Ripping. Like skinning a fish—

_Staaatic._

Toni is holding one of the black red feathers with an impassive expression, fingering the edges carefully as if afraid it's going to cut her—

_Staticstaticstaticstaticstaticstatic…_

"Let's see…" Lucifer is murmuring, staring a pair of wings laying flat on a tabletop. The bloody stumps have been wrapped in white gauze to prevent blood from spilling all over everything. _Static._ A voice, whispered like a hiss, hand on the base of the wings, smeared with red; "Come fix it, Pops."

Static. Pain. Nothing. Black. _Pain, pain, pain…_

Sam jolts awake. He's gasping. He's soaked. The world is blurring around him at dizzying speed. He can't remember making the decision to sit up, but he's already staggering to his feet. His legs threaten to give out beneath him, whining at his urgency after days of inactivity. His head is pounding, the last dregs of the vision lingering.

Vision.

_Vision._

_Crap, crap, crap—_

He doesn't care. ( _he cares. He cares. He cares. How can he not? It was over. It has been over. Only instances, brief and flickering, so little he could ignore it. It was done. Over. Completed. Concluded. After Lucifer, there was...)_ Cas. They're going to… _to…_

Mutilate. Butcher. Amputate.

He feels sick.

Sam stumbles toward the door, and rams his fist against it. The metal clangs beneath his fingers. He slams harder, desperate. He has to get someone's attention. Has to stop them. He can't let them perform the atrocity. He can't let Cas lose his wings. _Can't, can't, can't…_

He's shouting meaningless words. His voice is hoarse from disuse. It's not enough.

_Cas._

No one is coming. Not fast enough. He needs to be louder. Has to stop this, _now._ Sam does the only thing he can think of: He starts screaming. A screeching sound from somewhere dark and quiet. It seems to stem up from his oily, rotting soul. _Come get me. Come see why I sound like I'm dying. Just come!_

The lock's start buzzing, clicking, and the relief that waters through him sends him tumbling. His knees ram into the hard, cold concrete— _everything is cold—_ with enough force that he's vaguely concerned they're going to bruise.

The door is wrenched open, a man shouting obscenities fills up the doorway. "Bloody—! What are you going off about!?"

Sam pants, silencing. His throat is burning. He can't see straight or in less than twos. His arms fumble, but he manages to grab a handful of the man's white polo, yanking on him with enough force he strains buttons. "Take me to Castiel." His voice cracks. Hoarse. Ragged.

Like Cas's, pleading for mercy.

They cut him up anyway. Sword slicing the skin, bone...he's going to vomit.

The man stops struggling long enough to level Sam with a long look. "What?"

Sam splits his dry lips. His body feels a strange mixture of adrenaline filled and half a breath from collapsing. The lethargy that settled over him for days is gone, taken some time after they pulled the blade out in his vision. The memory of the premonition is enough to induce nausea, and Sam has to release the guard to press a hand against his mouth. It doesn't help. He dry heaves, spewing up some sort of filmy, watery, pink substance.

The man curses. His hand touches Sam's shoulder, and Sam jerks away, rearing violently. His fingers curl in, ready, but not to fight back. _Don't—no. No._

He spits up something else. He's shaking. His headache feels like his brain is being flayed.

"What's _wrong_ with you?" the Man of Letters demands. He's squatting next to Sam, looking slightly ill as he stares at the pink-ish liquid smeared across Sam's hands.

Sam laughs dully. _How much time you got?_ He wipes at the edge of his mouth, fingers stiff and swollen. "Take me to Castiel," he repeats. His tongue feels strange. " _Now."_

"I can't just cart you around the facility—"

"I don't care!"

"Are you dying?" the man questions impatiently. "Because you're not allowed to cross paths if that isn't the case." Sam stares at him, incredulous. That's the only time they're going to permit them meeting again? If Sam is _dying?_ His teeth grit together. His eyes flick up, and he realizes that he's staring at an open door, hallway free for his taking.

He's an idiot.

He makes a mad scramble for the open doorway, going something between all fours and his feet as he pushes himself out into the hall. The man makes a noise, grabbing for him, but his fingers only brush against Sam's ankle. The world makes a dizzying attempt to spin around him. Sam smacks into a wall, hard, and pushes himself off it only to be swarmed by vertigo.

_No. Not now._

He should have eaten the weird oatmeal-looking thing. Food would have helped him function. He needs to function.

He fumbles on his feet, feeling like he's liquid being poured into a cup. Tipping and tipping. A hand grabs his bicep, stopping his descent. It's the same guard as before. Sam twists slightly, and sees that there's a black woman walking down the hall towards them.

_No._

_He has to get to Cas._

Sam swallows; his mouth tastes like acid. He doesn't know where the angel would even be. He's never been conscious when he left a room in the facility. Even now, looking down the halls, he doesn't know whether to go up or down it.

"Take me to Castiel." Sam's tone is bordering on a plea. He reaches out his free hand and grabs the man's wrist. His eyes feel wide and frantic. His fingers must be cold, because the man's warm skin beneath his own is painful in its intensity.

The guard shakes his head lightly, almost as if he's trying to make sense of a madman's ravings.

"Something bad's going to happen. I can stop it," he feels like he's attempting to explain nuclear physics to a first grader. "You have to let me stop it. Please. Let me—"

Jolting pain stops him mid-sentence. Sam releases a strangled sound, tumbling to his knees, limbs loose and locked all at once. The woman holding the taser on his left stares at him from her position above him, head slightly cocked.

Sam gasps, breathing heavily, but his tongue is lead in his mouth. It was only an attempt to make him let go, not incapacitate him. Painful, but not paralyzing. His limbs tremble.

"What is going on?" The woman demands of the first man, lifting her taser up like a gun in rest.

"As if I know!?" he gestures widely towards Sam. "He just started bloody screaming. He keeps demanding to see Castiel, though he won't say why."

"Did you _ask?"_

That gives the man momentary pause. "You know Lady Bevell wouldn't approve. It doesn't matter what reason he has for it. It's not like he's dying. The halo can't do anything for him. "

Sam paws weakly at his chest.

He can't move.

_Get up. Cas needs you._

The woman makes a noise of disagreement. "He hasn't moved in days, and the first sign of activity he shows you ignore?"

"Well, I…"

She nudges Sam in the arm with the edge of her shoe. "Can you talk? What's the problem?" Sam's lips move. Nothing comes out. He tries again, and only ends with him drawing out a "C" in a long slur.

"Castiel." The man says. "That's all he's said."

"Well then, why don't you call his handler and _see_ if something's wrong?" The woman demands impatiently. The man makes a noise and looks as though he's barely withstanding a roll of his eyes before he pulls out his phone and moving off. The woman squats down next to him, shoving the taser into a holster on her belt.

"Sorry 'bout that. You alright?"

Sam doesn't know whether to be confused or angry. He settles with glaring at her and lifting a shaking hand up slowly. She pushes it down onto his chest with little effort. Her eyes squint, gray filling with some apprehension and she cusses softly. "You look awful."

_So?_

Feeling spent, Sam pushes up on worn muscles until he's halfway upright. The taser, at least, seems to have cleared away some of the dizziness. It didn't help his headache, and he has to squint in order to see straight, but he'll take what wins he can.

The woman puts a hand on his shoulder in a way he thinks she means to be supporting. It only causes his skin to jump beneath her fingers. He draws up, muscles tight.

He doesn't know how long they stay here, but it feels like a while. He wants to get up, _needs to,_ can feel an exigency pushing at him. But he can't move. He just sits there, like dead weight.

The man comes back from where he'd wandered down the hall, pocketing his phone. His expression is blank. "I'm afraid that we won't be able to help you. I've been instructed to return you to your cell."

Sam's teeth grit together.

The woman looks slightly suspicious. "Why?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

Ha. Cute.

Sam turns to the woman, trying to appeal to her sympathy. She's the first person he's seen in here that isn't callous. "He needs me. I have to do something."

The sound of his screaming...it's like an echo, haunting him. A death shroud; a banshee. Premonition. Vision. Everything. Nothing. _They were supposed to be over._ Most of the visions he's ever had have been used to manipulate him. After Lucifer finished pretending to be God, Sam had assumed it was over.

And...no. No.

( _He wants to go back to sleep.)_

The woman releases a heavy sigh. She looks up at the guard. "Help me get him up."

" _What!?_ "

"You heard what I said."

"I..."

" _Now."_

The man rocks on his heals, face twisted, hands clenched. But with obvious reluctance, he reaches down and yanks Sam up to his feet. Sam sways, but between the two Brits, they manage to keep him upright. He thinks this is supposed to be a triumph, but it only feels like a defeat. Sam allows himself to be strung between the two, focusing on keeping himself from dumping his entire weight on them. He locks his knees, ignoring a muttered comment from the man about his body temperature being freezing.

He hobbles forward on bare feet, inch by agonizing inch. His limbs ache. He wants to sleep.

He feels hungry, but too nauseous to contemplate seriously eating anything. The sound of Cas's agony rings through his head on a loop. Over and over. Endless. He wants to slam his hands over his ears, as if it will actually help muffle the sound.

Sam makes a mental map as they walk, trying to keep track of where they are in case an opportunity arrives that he can leave. He doesn't expect there to be. But he tries to hope. Nothing has presented itself thus far, but he hasn't been in the mindset to exactly be trying to plan anything out. It's just…

_Excuses. Excuse after excuse._

Sam presses his lips together. He hazes in and out, focusing on his feet and the concrete they're passing. The three of them don't encounter any more Men of Letters, and this doesn't instill him with confidence. A facility this big should be swarming with people, but it's empty. Like an abandoned warehouse.

Warehouse. Abandoned...What _is_ this place? The Bunker is mostly lined with metal and concrete, but this seems like it's some sort of re-used WWll bunker. Maybe this is just a holding area, but it hardly offers the warmth of the Bunker. Or the smells he's come to tentatively associate with it. Ginger and bleach sting his nostrils.

"Up ahead is where Lady Bevell said they'd had Castiel," the man murmurs. Sam lifts his head, staring down the hall. There's two doors on either side, and a dead end. Sam hasn't seen a window in days. (Weeks? How long has it been? Not longer than a month. He doesn't know. His ability to tell time has been skewed since Gadreel. The Cage. Demon blood, maybe.)

Sam pulls his lips against his teeth, apprehension bubbling in his stomach.

The door approaches, and the sense of _wrong_ continues to grow. _Cas, please, please be okay._ He has to have made it in time. _Please, God, let me have made it in time._

After flashing some sort of card, the man opens the door. Sam pushes away from him so he can stand on his own trembling feet. He's breathing heavily, like he's been running. His stomach is twisted in so many knots he feels like he's eaten something poisonous.

The room smells like blood. Thick, rolling rivers of it. There's an overlaying chemical smell in the air as well, most prominently bleach. The scent is enough to make him gag.

He tears his gaze across the space, looking desperately for Cas. For the table he was pinned to. The Men of Letters holding him down while his wings were chopped off. _Why would they do that? Why would they ground him? Why take them? Why?_

The room is not bustling with people. Sam sees the table from his vision and raises his left hand up to his mouth, biting on the back of his hand. It's bathed in old blood, an hour old at least. An attempt to mop it has been made, but it's obvious that a make-shift surgery, if not a murder, happened there.

_Oh, God…_

No.

He didn't.

No.

It.

_No._

Cas.

Sam feels his lips press together, tense, release. This happened. It happened. _It happened._ The floor is clean. In the span of things, it's such a useless, unimportant detail, but it catches his attention and holds it. The floor shouldn't be clean. If something like this happens, evidence of it should be everywhere. Staining it. Tainting it. Haunting it.

_Cas._

Sam eyes land on the lone figure in the room, standing in front of a large table. Two weighted lumps sit there. Black red feathers. Cas's wings.

Lucifer's turned to face the doorway, head cocked in that stupid bird gesture. Curious and annoyed.

And for the first time in days, Sam feels something other than terror. Apathy. Nothing. His skin prickles. This is, he thinks, anger. Rage.

 _You did this. I know what you can do, and you did this._ It wasn't Toni's idea. It wasn't the Men of Letters. This was all him.

"Sam." Lucifer says calmly.

"You…" Sam breathes, pulling his hand away. His fingers tighten until his knuckles are white. Tense. Painful. "How could you…?"

Lucifer jerks his head to the left, and Sam flinches, drawing up straighter. He hears the sound of bone snapping behind him. The two Men of Letters who walked in with him crumple to the floor, necks snapped. More blood spills.

It's everywhere. In him. On him.

"I wonder," Lucifer murmurs, resting a hand on one of Cas's wings, turning away from him for a moment to stare at the feathers. "How it is you learned of this. I told them to keep it quiet."

"Psychopath."

A faint grin stretches up the archangel's vessel's lips. It's not for mirth. Not for laughter. He feels cold all over again. Freezing. Broken. He wants to crumple and give in. Sleep until he rots. "Don't blame me for this. I did what I had to. Though I didn't want to," Lucifer strokes one of the feathers. His hands draw away cut, bleeding faintly until they heal over with a faint hum of grace.

The feathers are sharp.

He didn't know that.

He didn't know that angel wings could be removed.

He feels the sudden, deep urge to mourn. Howl. Something precious has been lost, and there's nothing Sam can do. It's over. He lost. Again. He's too late. Always too late. He can't…

_Cas._

Cas.

"You didn't have to do anything. You chose this. _Why would you choose this!?"_

Lucifer snorts darkly. His eyes are pained. Not for Cas. Not for anyone. Just himself. "I have to get his attention. If I have to get louder, I'll get louder. He's gotta hear me, Sammy. I'm gonna make him hear me."

Sam struggles for a moment, trying to comprehend. Not sure if he wants to. "Who? Wait— _Chuck?"_

"Do you know how many times he's come running to put Castiel back together again?" Lucifer's voice is rising. Real anger. He's not playing with Sam. his soul aches dully in a phantom pain of the last time Lucifer's temper exploded. "I _atomized_ him, and Pop _did_ something. You took him from me Sam. I'm just taking something back."

Horrified isn't even close to what he's feeling.

"You did this to Cas…" he can't say it. It's on the tip of his tongue _Because of us. Because of me._ It wasn't enough. It's never enough. Nothing ever satisfies him. Sam's gaze flicks to the table. The image of Lucifer standing there, gleeful, makes him sick. He watched. He did nothing.

Cas begged.

Sam begged.

And he laughed. Smiled. Because nothing's quite as enjoyable as watching blood smear down from intestines. Like making someone watch their organs get removed then put back together like a puzzle.

There's a gun laying on a nearby counter, among various other weapons and surgical equipment. All meaningless against archangels, but Sam doesn't care. He makes a mad dive for the gun and his swollen fingers wrap around it. Lucifer starts to move in the corner of his eye, mouth open to say something. Sam twists around, one hand wrapped around the edge of the counter to keep himself upright.

Sam takes unsteady aim at center mass and fires. The bullet is oddly reflective. He'd say golden if he didn't know better.

He expects Lucifer to jolt back slightly, and give Sam an annoyed, but exasperated look. That doesn't happen. The bullet slams into his chest and Lucifer stops. His eyes flare red for a moment before real, raw agony flashes across his face.

He crumples. He screams.

He falls to his knees, hands pressed against his vessel's chest, pawing as if trying to claw his way inside of the skin. Sincere, real pain. He sounds like he's dying. Through gasping breaths, his eyes look hazily for Sam, and he hisses his name like a snake.

Sam looks at the gun. He remembers Cas talking about the bullets made from holy fire. The infected skin. The way he couldn't even stand properly, listing to one side in an effort to try and keep the pain at bay. The gun is heavy in his hands. Cold. He looks up at the archangel, bowed before him. Agonized.

Sam takes unsteady aim.

He fires again.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Crying


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: PTSD. Disassociation.

* * *

The magazine is empty before Sam stops. The gun clicks as it dry fires when he keeps pulling the trigger. Beyond the first bullet, there are four that pierce the skin of the vessel. Six total. Dean's 1911 holds seven rounds. His Taurus seventeen. Six rounds. He shot him six times.

Lucifer is a crippled mass before him, unable to move, wrapped around himself like he's in danger of losing pieces should he let go. Panting, heaving, blood pooling. He's not moving. Sam doesn't know if he can. He's twitching, like it's simply death throes.

He shot him.

He _shot_ him.

His fingers slide off the edge of the counter, elbow ramming against the side before he can catch himself. His teeth grit as the ulnar nerve is pushed, sending a jolt of breathless pain through his arm to his shoulder.

Sam pants, shoving himself up again to hold his weight against his palm and wrist, pressed into the counter. He doesn't know what to do. The rage is fading, leaving in its wake a wide, sickening horror. _You've never won a fight with him before,_ a soft voice warns in the back of his mind. _Why would that change now?_

He's braced, like this is some sort of joke. He's just waiting for the punchline. The punishment.

Nothing happens.

Lucifer moans in his throat, blood bubbling from his vessel's lips. It's black, with a yellow, foamy tinge.

Sam sips air in between his teeth to his hollow stomach. He needs... _needs…_ he doesn't know. Doesn't understand. ( _He shot him.)_ Sam's gaze flicks up, catching sight of the wings. It reminds him of the vision. Of Cas.

He drops the gun onto the counter, not wanting to hold it anymore. It clatters loudly, and he winces.

He has to leave. Has to find Cas.

When he tries to move away from the counter, he nearly topples. His legs are weak, and his body limp. This isn't just exhaustion. Adrenaline has faded, leaving a deep, bone-aching terror in its place. Sam's eyes are pinned on the archangel. He can't pull them away. The world is tunneling, turning a faint, mystic gray, but he won't move.

This is, he thinks, panic. He's panicking, and he's not breathing because he's panicking, which means that his vision is tunneling as a result of that, and— _he cannot breathe._ Sam bites on the inside of his tongue and holds his breath. He tries to exhale slowly, but it feels like he can't hold onto the air. He knows how to deal with panic attacks. But the logic is proving a secondary concern when the forefront of his mind is screeching _WHAT DID YOU DO!?_

Sam thought, for the longest time, that being able to return some sort of pain to Lucifer would be a relief.

He's shaking. He's going to be sick.

A hazy figure steps into his line of sight, hands reaching for his shoulders. Sam flinches away, trying to move along the counter, but his legs take that moment to give entirely. He topples forward, only stopped from a brutal collision with the ground when hands grab his biceps and haul him back towards the wooden tables. He's forced onto one, and Sam has to focus to sit upright.

Other people filter in and out of his peripheral, but the first figure doesn't move out of his line of sight.

He doesn't know how long it takes him to realize that his forearms are being gripped, but he flexes out his fingers in agitation to the pain when he does. His vision is starting to clear, and Sam can see Lucifer being loaded onto some sort of gurney by what look vaguely like EMTs. They're shouting something about BP.

Sam chokes on a laugh.

_His_ _blood pressure is fine. It will always be fine._

Did he kill the vessel? Does he care?

"Sam?" His eyes pull back to the man in front of him. Dark hair, soulful eyes. He was in the interrogation room when Sam first came to. Daniel? Danver? There's the slightest edge of uneasiness on his expression, as if he's trying to make sense of something gruesome. "Sam, can you hear me?"

Sam's lips part, his voice croaky. "Uh, I…"

The pressure on his forearms releases some, enough that the nails no longer feel like they're piercing into his skin. Sam's gaze flicks down for a moment, and he realizes that maybe-Danver is gripping them. An attempt to ground him, he thinks. Clarity is slowly coming back to him, like he's sinking slowly in it.

"I shot him," Sam whispers. He doesn't know who he's confessing to. Himself? Maybe-Danver?

"We know." Maybe-Danver assures. He doesn't seem nearly as furious as he should. His head tips slightly, toward where the two agents who Sam forced to take him here fell. Sam feels sick at the memory of their twisted necks. Human bone shouldn't bend like that. "You deal with them, too?"

For an obscure, terrifying moment, he considers taking credit. As if Lucifer's presence is something to be guarded and kept safe. A problem only he and Cas have to deal with while they're kept here. But the Men of Letters know about angels, and Lucifer's safety is not his priority. He can burn.

"No." Sam says, and breathes out, "No." His chin tips up to indicate Lucifer behind maybe-Danver. "He did."

Lucifer's eyes are squeezed closed, oblivion of pain his only reality now, but Sam swears he sees his fingers curl in themselves at that, as if furious.

Sam feels cold.

Maybe-Danver's eyebrows climb his forehead. He glances once behind himself as if making sure he and Sam are thinking of the same person. When his eyes return, they're doubtful. Sam flexes his fingers out until he can grab hold of maybe-Danver's forearms around the black suit coat. He grips to hold his attention, maybe to keep himself from falling. "He's an angel."

Maybe-Danver's eyes narrow a fraction.

"Why do you think I shot him?" Sam asks. His species Sam could care less about. What he did is the catalyst that led to pulling the trigger. What he did to Cas.

Oh man. _Cas._

"Hm." Maybe-Danver intones, tone devoid of his opinion or emotion. And that's it. No surprise. No betrayed look. Not even a consideration. A hum. "We'll look into it. For now, Mr. Winchester, I believe it's time you saw a doctor."

Sam coughs up a snort. A doctor? They'll play that game? What do they hope to achieve? Stockholm syndrome? "You don't believe me."

"I think you believe it."

Sam tightens his grip until maybe-Danver's hand flexes in pain. "You heal him, and he's going to kill you."

Maybe-Danver's face flickers for a moment, but he makes no move to stop the EMTs from leaving.

Sam blows air out between his teeth. He wants to fight him, _force_ him to understand, but with Lucifer is crippled, he is, for once, a secondary concern. _(No, no. He'll come back. He always comes back...)_ "I need to see Castiel."

Maybe-Danver's expression shudders, then closes off. Sam feels sick. Was he there? Did he watch while they did that to him? "I'm afraid that won't be possible at this time."

Sam's teeth grind in his irritation. "I need—"

"That won't be possible at this time, Mr. Winchester. Perhaps we can arrange for a later date." Maybe-Danver interrupts. He releases Sam's arms, but Sam doesn't return the favor.

_He has to see Cas._

"I know what you did." Falls out of him before he can stop it.

Maybe-Danver stops, eyebrows drawing together before looks back at Sam. " _How_? Lady Bevell was adamant you remain in the dark."

Sam leans forward, forcing himself to seem more intimidating than he knows he must be. Pale, sickly, and well on his way to gaunt, he doubts he's much of a sight. "I know," Sam repeats like a threat, "what you did. So take me to Castiel, or God help you because nothing else will."

Maybe-Danver pulls his lower lip in, eyes flickering across the bloody scene. As far as he's aware, Sam just shot a man six times without motivation. Dean would have already knocked the man unconscious and begun to tear apart the facility. Something twists in his stomach at the thought of his brother.

Maybe-Danver sighs. "Get up."

_Oh, thank God._

Sam fumbles to get to his feet, releasing maybe-Danver's arms. A stupid impulse. He has no reason to trust these people. Even less now. But he does anyway.

He sees the blurred movement from the corner of his eye, but his reflexes are shot. By the time he's twisting out of the way, maybe-Danver's taser is buried in his lower left ribcage. The pain is fiery and jolting. All-encompassing. He can't scream, but he needs to, has to get this built up energy out. His body shudders, jerking, twisting, falling. Maybe-Danver doesn't pull back.

_Stop, stop, stop..._

Sam tumbles toward the floor.

_Cas..._

000o000

"With all the cloak and daggers they put into this operation, you'd think they'd have better locks," Dean mutters, not exactly in complaint, but close, as he twists the lockpick inside of the cylinder, hearing the deadbolt give.

"You really complainin'?" Garth questions skeptically behind him.

"No," Dean concedes, rising to his feet and pushing the door open. It swings wide into a large living room. Homey is the first word that comes to mind. There's a single couch against the back wall with two tall lamps on either side, a coffee table filled with stacks of yellow folders, a small flatscreen TV perched on a bookshelf, and a handful of children's toys scattered across the room. A Lego tower is in the process of being built in one corner, well on it's way past two feet tall. Something in his chest pulls at the sight.

Toni Bevell doesn't have an address listed to her name. In fact, as far as the internet is concerned, she's a figment of Crowley's imagination. But paranoid the Men of Letters may be, and skilled at covering their tracks, it isn't a perfect science. Crowley's resources are almost unlimited, and pulling up a pseudonym wasn't that difficult for him, or Dean, once given a little more background. As much as Dean doesn't want to rely on him, he'd started to run out of options. Even with Crowley's assistance, it still took days.

Three weeks since Amara came and went, stretched out gluttonously into a fourth before he and Garth clambered into a plane to meet Crowley in London, England.

They have Bevell's name. They had a number, of which proved to be a bust. The address and owner were registered to some elderly grandmother who collects garden gnomes and knits—whole nine yards into cliché. Apparently this was a last-ditch effort of rebellion by Crowley's main informant, a recent hell-arrival, one Dr. Elli Saris, taken before her ten years were complete.

(Dean remembers the first few weeks in hell. He'd have been willing to play those games out of spite, too. But she'll be just as dead as he was given enough time. It's inevitable. A truth. _I lost track of how many souls_ _._ _.._ )

Despite all this, he does know that a child was registered to Bevell's fake name. He just didn't take the claims that seriously. It seemed like the type of setup to make her seem more normal. Create a fake ID, add a child. Apparently that's about the only part of her life on the computer that isn't fictitious.

"Hm." Garth intones behind him, seeming almost pleasantly surprised. What was he expecting? The heads of her enemies pinned to the walls? "Little smaller than I thought it'd be. You think her bosses don't pay well?"

"Her salary is fine." Crowley reassures to Dean's left. "Frankly, I think they pay too much. This _is_ central London."

Dean takes a step into the room, ignoring the two, pulling out his 1911. He scrapes his shoe along the edge of the fine line of salt next to the doorway, breaking it, and flicks his gaze up, looking for a devil's trap. When none obvious present themselves, he bites hard on the inside of his lower lip and nods once to Crowley. There isn't a rug for it to be hidden beneath. Apparently, Bevell believes in her anonymity a little too much.

He and Garth take point into the apartment, with the demon trailing behind them.

It's probably a good—but unintentional—thing that they managed to do the B&E in the middle of school hours. He'd rather not hold a kid hostage to make a point to Bevell. He would, for Sam and Cas, but not happily. The toys in the main room suggest they can't be older than six.

Garth immediately goes for the folders on the coffee table. Dean ignores them. Forgive him if he doesn't think the location of the Men of Letters London base is something that's laying out on a table for all to see. For all the effort that the Men of Letters have put into vanishing their existence and employees, it seems like it would sort of defy the point.

Dean moves out of the living room, towards the back of the apartment. The kitchen is large—at least, compared to some apartments he's seen. It has a full oven, dishwasher, and all. It looks lived in. Stains on the countertop and table, dishes in desperate need of completion. A bread loaf half eaten and another growing fuzz side-by-side the fruit bowl.

Dean allows his eyes to linger on the MacBook sitting on the table, then he moves further back into the apartment. In the hall, he passes the kid's room, a bathroom, and a hall closet that has more towels than two people could ever reasonably need, then finally lands in Bevell's room. There's still two other rooms, both with closed doors. One is probably an office, which Dean will check after the bedroom.

Small, slightly cramped, and stacked with paperwork. Have the Men of Letters never heard of a Word document? Or a flashdrive? Google drive? Who on earth still does this much paperwork?

Turning on the safety, Dean stuffs his gun back inside his waistband and moves for the desk. He starts rifling through some of the folders, flipping up pages. It takes him a second to realize what the information on the pages is. It looks like scrambled gibberish, but it's actually mission reports. He stops on one with lines circled orange highlighter and notes on the margins with pen. It's a werewolf hunt filed out in awkward English:

_Subject enters London in docks. Left. We attempt chase. Subject does not catch. We talk with others. They help. We manage to capture wolf. Silver hatchet to remove head proves effective. We bury body._

Silver hatchet? Huh. Not something he or Sam have tried. They normally have a gun in hand. He returns the paper to its proper place and starts looking for dates. The wolf hunt is listed as January of 2012, and it's not close enough to today's date to be remotely helpful. He flips through folders, 2012, 2013, 2015…

"Huh."

Dean inclines his head at Crowley's voice behind him. When the demon doesn't append, Dean leaves his fingers between two folders and twists his upper body around to face him. Crowley is holding some sort of long, thin black-red thing. It kind of looks like an angel sword. His grip on it is obviously careful, fingers just gently brushing the tip, but Dean can still see healing skin from where it was cut.

"What's that?" Dean asks. It looks out of place in the clean apartment. Also weirdly familiar, almost as if he's seen it in a dream somewhere.

Crowley's eyebrows raise to his hairline. "You're joking."

Dean barely resists the urge to roll his eyes in annoyance. "No."

"I forget how hopelessly little you know about angels," Crowley says in degradation. He seems darkly amused, as if Dean's ignorance is entertaining.

" _Crowley."_

"This, my poorly informed friend, is an angel feather. One of the primaries if I had to guess."

A feather? Really? Aren't angel feathers supposed to be like...white? And light? Fluffy? Dean stares at it. The light flickers off of it like a piece of metal, but it's oddly absorbed as well, giving off the appearance of slight translucence. The edge is tipped red almost as if it was painted that way, but the patchy job of it makes him think it was burned.

But he _knows_ this feather. His fingers release the folders, and he turns to face Crowley properly. "Cas," he whispers.

Crowley looks down at the feather, then up at Dean, eyebrows raised. "I know how I know that. How do _you_ know that?"

That's a good question. He...doesn't know. He's never seen one of Cas's wings in his life. Beyond the silhouette on occasion, Dean's never been privy to that honor. So how on earth does he know what Cas's feathers look like? How does it seem more and more familiar the longer he looks at it? He's not—

 _I raised you from perdition,_ whispers through his head like a threat. It's been years since he thought about the barn, and Cas striding inside, radiating power and a sense of other that felt so _off_ at the time. And—

Oh.

_Oh._

Dean doesn't have distinct memories of his rescue from the Pit, but the further the distance between then and now, the more things have started to filter in. Blurry images. Hazy words in Enchocian.

 _I have seen them,_ he realizes, _I know them because I saw them_ there _._

He doesn't remember walking across the room, but the next thing he knows, Dean's reaching for the feather. His fingers brush the sharp edge, painful to the touch, but vague, like pinching a cactus between two fingers. The feather doesn't bed easily beneath his grip, hard like a blade.

Crowley wordlessly lets him take it. For all it looks like it should weigh a few pounds, Dean doubts it's heavier than a few ounces at most. Maybe even less than his phone. His lips pull down in a frown. _This shouldn't be here. It should be with Cas._

He didn't even know Cas still _had_ feathers post Metatron, and feels a little guilty he hadn't thought to ask. He'd sort of assumed that the angel's losing their wings meant that _everything_ was gone. Bone, muscle, ligaments. Cas never mentioned it to him. Dean didn't ask.

"What...what…" Dean's words feel strange, as if he can't figure out what he's trying to say. "Why is this _here_? If this is Cas's, why isn't it with him?"

It's part of his wings. What remains of them, anyway.

Dean is struck with the private, selfish desire to see them.

"That is the five hundred dollar question, Squirrel." Crowley agrees. "Do you know how difficult it is to get an angel feather?"

No. He doesn't. All the spells or rituals they've used haven't needed them. Angels hadn't been to earth for centuries before the Apocalypse. Humans learned to accommodate, he guesses. Beyond spells, he doesn't even know what you _could_ use them for. Maybe to impale things.

"Your blank face speaks enough for you. You've known Castiel for how many years? How do you know nothing?"

"We don't know _nothing,"_ Dean corrects, irritated. It just...hasn't...there hasn't been a lot of information on them. The Men of Letters profess to know a lot, but it's pretty obvious if they'd gathered their scattered references together, they'd have enough actual lore for about fifteen pages, if that. Everything beyond that is random bits of truth scattered among myth. Cas always had relevant information when they needed it.

"Obviously," Crowley's voice is dry, his head shifting slightly towards the doorway as if he hears something. "I'm curious what they did to take that."

"We have a video. Would you like to watch?"

Dean flicks the feather out like a knife, his other slicing down the middle as he tears it away to go for his 1911. He hisses as the blood pools, but refuses to let it be a distraction, gaze pulling up towards the doorway.

There, gun clutched in two steady hands toward them, is a pajama-clad, bedheaded Bevell.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Broken trust.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments! :) Your feedback means the world to me.
> 
> Warnings: Some violence.

* * *

Bevell's expression is impassive, but there's the slightest edge of irritation in her gaze, as if two strangers being in her bedroom are nothing more pressing than remembering to take out the trash. "What are you doing in my flat?"

Dean stares her up and down. She doesn't look like much. Nothing glaringly impressive about her features. But she took them. His brother. His best friend. She _took_ them. Left the weird chalk-art looking sigils that he'd never seen before, but had runes in Enochian, written across the floor. She's the reason he hasn't seen either of them in almost a month.

Dean's fingers tighten around the angel feather. Ever since the Mark, violence has felt different. Harder, sharper; too real, but a lucid dream all at once. The relief has faded since then, but not all of the urges haven't: _Stab her in the eye._

He sucks in air between his teeth to clear his head. Calm himself. "It's a lovely location," Dean says slowly, "you ever think of putting it up for sale?"

"No." Bevell's tone is flat. Her gun is pointed between the two of them, clearly unsure which one would be more of a threat. The bullets, Dean doubts, are devil's trap. The most they're going to do is annoy Crowley. Her thumb shifts, cocking the weapon. "Get out. Now."

Dean takes a step forward. Crowley's gaze slides to him.

Bevell's gun jumps from in-between to aimed at his chest. Dean bites back a laugh. He could care less about whether or not she shoots him. He just wants to know where Sam and Cas are. And Alastair made sure he could get information off of people. The weapon in his hands feels like a test. Suddenly, even with the small connection it provides him to Cas, Dean wants nothing than to be further from the bloody angel feather.

_Focus,_ he chides himself. _You really are going to get yourself shot._

"You work for the British Men of Letters. Your name is Antonia Bevell. You got a kid, about six years old, but don't have a library card. We right so far?"

There. The slip from of annoyance to unease. Her fingers re-wrap around the handle, shifting up. Her pointer finger twitches towards the trigger, but remains pressed against the side in safety. Not her first time handling a gun, then.

Bevell's lower lip pulls in, "Let's say you are. Why should I care?"

Dean allows a callous smile to creep up his face. His thumb rubs up the side of the feather. "Ah-ah. We're asking the questions here, sweetheart. So why don't we sit down and talk about this like adults? Without the guns?"

"Talk about _what?"_

"The Men of Letters."

Bevell's eyes narrow a fraction and she tilts her head as if trying to see him in a better light. Her gun drops slightly with surprise. There's a small pause, "Dean Winchester?"

Dean's gaze flicks slightly towards Crowley, who's looking between the two of them with vague interest. How on earth...?

"Yeah." He says after a moment. In the long span of things, he's been a serial killer what? Three times now? It's not like getting a picture or his name is exactly hard anymore if you know where to look. And given that she has Sam and Cas, Bevell knows where to trust her sources.

"You're dead." Bevell says flatly. "You have been for almost a month."

_Cockroach._

"Oh, don't we all wish that was true?" Crowley asks. Dean's gaze flicks up towards the ceiling in annoyance, even as his stomach twists. His wrists throb dully in the phantom ache of suspension.

_Never let them see you sweat._

"If you're so freakin' adamant about—" Dean starts to say, but Bevell takes the moment of distraction and lowers her gun towards his legs, discharging it. Having caught the movement in the corner of his eye, Dean is already pulling back and away from her when he's tossed backwards forcefully into a nearby dresser.

His back smacks against the hard edge and he hisses as he is momentarily blind and winded. _Freakin' demonic powers from Satan._ Crowley just stopped him from getting shot, he realizes dazedly. The bullet embedded itself in the carpet instead of what would have been his knee or quad.

The gun fires again.

"Really?" Crowley's voice is filled with indignation. "I just had this suit pressed."

Bevell swears lowly.

Dean shakes his head to clear it, lifting his eyes. He's already pushing up off the floor, but takes a moment to pull his jacket's sleeve down over his palm so he can grab Cas's feather without slicing up his skin. His shoulder aches from the collision, but it's more a minor annoyance than anything else.

Bevell is frozen in place, one of Crowley's hands stretched out in a fist, the other lightly patting down the hole in his suit coat.

"Can you believe the audacity?" Crowley pinches the broken fabric between two fingers. For the strangest reason, Dean gets the impression the demon isn't speaking about the suit coat. He looks back up towards Bevell, lips a hard line. "I should finish this now. We can collect the information from someone else."

_Who?_ Dean wants to demand. _We spent weeks looking for_ her.

Bevell eyes flick between the two of them, urgent. Not one for active duty, then. At least, not with demons.

"No." The words are harder than they should be to say. "We need her alive."

Crowley sneers at him. "Pity."

_It is, isn't it? Imagine all the blood you could draw from her…_

Dean's jaw aches from how tightly he's clenching his teeth. He forces numb feet forward and grabs Bevell's arm with bloody fingers, hauling her back towards the kitchen. The gun is laying in the hall behind her, probably tossed from her grip by Crowley. Dean leaves it there.

Garth looks up from the living room area towards them as they approach, lowering the folder he had lifted in front of his face. His eyebrows raise, but he says nothing.

Dean shoves Bevell into one of the four chairs at the table, slapping the angel feather down on the other side and turns to grab a tissue from the box at the center of the table. Wiping his bloody palms, he takes the second and gathers himself together. He's so close. _So close._ And it's here that he can feel himself crumbling apart.

There's three cuts that are long, but thankfully shallow. It will be painful for a few days, but nothing he hasn't already endured. Wiping with the tissue only smears the blood across his hands, painting it the familiar hue of blood red.

_Okay._

Dean lifts his head up and turns to face the woman. Her jaw is gritted, but she doesn't look nearly as in control as she did earlier when defiant eyes raise to his.

"Where are they?" Dean demands. "Where is my brother and the angel?"

Bevell's lips thin, gaze flicking towards Crowley as he comes into place beside Dean, but returns to him just as quickly. In what is clearly an effort to regain the upper hand, she lifts up her hands and rests joined fingers on the wooden tabletop with an air of ease that belies the rigid line in her shoulders. "Why would I tell you?"

Dean feels his head tilt slightly. "Because I'm not my brother."

Bevell's brow draws together in obvious confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

Dean's eyes narrow, and his fingers curl against the varnished wood. He didn't realize he was gripping the back of a chair until now. "Because Sam—he'd want to talk about this. Discuss a quid pro quo. I don't care. You either help us or we kill you. You say you know who I am? You know my body count. You really think that some random Brit is going to bother me?"

He's a killer, with oceans of blood on his hands. Enough to drown in. That's never going to change. Mark or no Mark.

Dean hears Garth get up behind him.

Bevell's fingers clench tighter until they're nearly white, gaze pinned on his face. She tosses blonde hair away from her eyes, and contrary to what he'd expected, her shoulders visibly relax. "Do you know what my job is, Mr. Winchester?"

_What does that—?_ "What?"

"Do you know what my job is?" she repeats.

"Full time librarian, part time kidnapper?" Dean quips. The words fill the silence, but they're hollow. His humor feels like a flat tire he's told to drag everywhere. It rolls, but bumpily, hitting every crevice in the road as it goes.

Bevell's lips quirk, "No. I'm one of the Men of Letters' profilers. My job is to know all about you, your brother, and Cas." The nickname feels foreign when it rolls off her tongue, and oddly, it makes him angry. "It wasn't my first unit, but all Men of letters' are skilled in multiple areas. My expertise has always been the mind. That's why I know you aren't going to shoot me, Dean Winchester."

His mouth splits into a dry smile. "Oh?"

She leans forward a fraction, "Underneath all that rage, you're nothing but a scared little boy." His tongue presses against the inside of his teeth when she smiles slightly, "I know lots of children, Mr. Winchester. Do they strike you as killers?"

_Ha._

_I was._

He's been killing since his dad shoved a gun into his hands at six.

Dean lets his fingers lightly rest on Cas's feather, letting the threat speak itself. "Clearly you don't know a lot about my childhood. You're, uh, mystic ball tell you that?"

"No, don't be ridiculous. Your brother did."

His façade falls. He can feel it crack, breaking the mask of anger and nothingness that he's been playing for days. His face has drained of color, and his hands are loose instead of clutching. He feels sick, but full of adrenaline.

_Sammy…_

"There. See. Your brother is a weakness to you. One mention and you're ready to shrivel at my feet for answers." Bevell's tone has gained some confidence, and her eyes slide away from him to Crowley, voice picking up speed. "You're a demon. I could smell you from down the hall. And you," she looks at Garth, brow drawing together. "Hunter?"

"Favorite cousin." Garth's voice is thick with sarcasm.

"All their cousins are dead." Bevell's voice is flat.

Dean twitches, left hand curling around the chair again.

Garth raises his .45 toward her head, thumbing a bullet into the chamber. "Not the favorite. So why don't we get down to business here, and you stop playing mind games and start talkin'? Where are they?"

Bevell's lips press together and she looks away, jaw clenched.

Nothing then.

He doesn't know if it's worse or better. She's a snake, using her words like venom-filled bites. Lies upon lies.

Crowley smooths a hand across the top of the table, his tone careless. "Would you prefer we wait until your spawn is out of child jail? Do you know how many spells require children's bones? I'd love to add to my collection, and I know my mother would as well."

He grimaces.

Bevell's face drains of color. She looks stark-white against the yellow hue of the lightbulbs. "Leave him out of this. My work has nothing to do with him."

Dean snorts. "He know Mommy has held at least two men against their will for twenty-six days?"

Her glare is fierce, but meaningless.

"It does," Crowley promises, his voice steadily rising the more words he speaks, as if his temper is loosening with every syllable. "You made it. So why don't you save me the pleasure of removing your child's limbs, and _start talking!"_

Bevell flinches back from the sound.

Dean waits.

Bevell's heated eyes stare between them, as if looking for cracks and fissures. But Dean doesn't stop. Garth's hand doesn't lower. Crowley remains impassive. Silence, Dean has learned, is the best way to gain information. Anticipation is often the killing blow.

Bevell waits. Dean waits. They all wait. Round in the circle of silence and hate they go.

Her chin lifts up a fraction, indicating the MacBook on the other side of the table. "Hand that to me." None of them move. Her eyes cloud with visible annoyance. "I can't help you without it. Hand it to me."

"Locations might work differently in London, but in the US, we just tell people an address." Dean says. His hands are starting to ache. The blood is pooling between his fingertips, attempting to dry in flaky masses. He needs to actually wash and bandage the cuts. Fix yet another injury to add to his already beaten arms.

"I'm attempting to give you one."

"No." Dean corrects. Her eyes pull up to him. "You're trying to evade again. I'm not an idiot. You think that you can buy yourself time. Maybe contact your buddies, let them know we're coming."

She doesn't correct him.

He feels very tired.

"Child jail releases their prisoners in about an hour. I think we can fill the time." Crowley suggests.

His hands bounce in agitation. Dean doesn't want to include the kid. He doesn't _want_ that, but it's starting to look like he won't get much of a choice. _C'mon, make this easier for everyone,_ he wills her, _just give it up._

Bevell's jaw tightens to the point it looks painful. "Fine." She hisses out between her teeth. "Get me some paper. I'll write it down for you."

"That won't be necessary," Garth promises, handing the gun to Dean's good hand and reaching across the table with long arms to grab the laptop. He pulls it towards himself and sits down beside Bevell, pushing open the screen. The computer takes it's time loading the lock screen. Garth's fingers hover over the keyboard, looking to the woman expectantly.

Her lips press into an unhappy line. "Arthur. No capitals."

"That your son's name?" Garth asks, typing the password in. A scathing look is all the werewolf receives in answer.

The desktop loads slowly, but Garth waits with more patience than Dean can muster until they start returning feed instead of a blank screen. Two different browsers are open, an array of photos, and live feed of four different rooms from somewhere.

Three small rooms that are clearly cells, and what looks like some sort of hospital room. Dean nearly slumps forward with relief when he sees the familiar tall figure laying in one of the hospital beds.

Sam.

He's one of three patients there, but the only one restrained. The room's lights are bright, offering as good a view as he's going to get through the grainy footage. His brother is completely lax against the mattress, an IV port feeding into one elbow, oxygen mask strapped loosely to the lower half of his face. He's clean shaven. Skin stretches around bone, sunken eyes swallowed up by what look like bruises. He looks terrible. Thin to the point of gaunt, pale and sickly. Sam doesn't _get_ sick. Dean hasn't seen him look that rough since the Trials.

_What did they do?_

His skin looks unmarked, but if Sam were truly _fine,_ then he'd be moving. Or awake. Or— _something._

He looks dead.

Dean has to force his eyes away, even as much as he wants to drink up the sight of his sibling, he can't. Cold Oak feels like a bruise he's poking at. At least he's alive. It could be worse. They could have taken a hand or something. _At least he's alive._ Doesn't even look to be in any pain, but that could be drugs.

"Hm." Crowley intones.

Bevell is side eyeing him as if waiting for an explosion. Dean swallows anything he was going to say. There was nothing. What can he? What words can fill up a month of absence and failure? Anything he wants to speak is for only Sam.

Garth's eyes are moving between the four screens as well, and it's with obvious reluctance that he shrinks the window and pulls up a browser. It's currently open on a page of angelic spells, but Dean doesn't give it more than a cursory glance before Garth is opening Google Maps.

"Address?" the hunter asks.

Bevell opens her mouth.

Crowley leans forward, up into her personal space. "I would recommend that you keep your forked tongue between your teeth. I have a thing for liars. There's a special place reserved for you in my kingdom."

Garth clicks something, and Dean's gaze flicks back to the computer. He pulled up the photos. Whether it was intentional or not doesn't really matter.

Dean stops breathing.

_God, please no._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Oxygen Mask


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gore. Torture.

* * *

_We have video…_

Dean didn't think twice about the offhanded comment from the woman before. It was just sound filtering into his mind, in one ear, out the other. It didn't _mean_ anything. But looking at the photos, Dean longs for his earlier ignorance.

He's seen bloody murders before. He's caused plenty. Carnage has become an unwilling buddying factor to his life. But there's something different about it when you know the victim. More intimate. Sickening.

Pictures of wings. No, not pictures. Stills from a video, with the timestamp plastered onto one corner. Black, bloody, patchy to the point it's almost pathetic, but Dean knows them. Like he knew the feather. The red tipped edges of the feathers, burned by hellfire. Those are Cas's. Severed clean from his body or true form, or whatever, but resting on the table like they're dead butterflies to be kept behind glass.

Gone.

Removed.

_Taken._

Son of a—Garth's grip on his wrist is sudden and sharp, stopping the .45 before Dean can make proper aim at Bevell's forehead. The gun discharges, firing into the ceiling, breaking plaster and scraping the edge of the ugly light.

Distantly, so distant it feels like another person, Dean realizes that they're going to get the cops called on them. _Let them come,_ a part of him challenges.

"Let go." Dean growls.

"Dean." Garth warns.

" _Let. Go."_

Dean struggles in the grip, trying to shove past the hunter, but Garth has risen to his feet and is blocking his path. "Just hang on there for a moment—"

"I'm gonna kill her."

" _Dean."_

_No. Stop fighting me. Let me rip her freakin' eyes out._

"If it's any consolation," Bevell's voice is oddly quiet. Not remorseful; quiet. "It wasn't my decision. This is no longer my detail."

 _Then whose was it,_ part of him wants to demand, _who authorized this?_

Dean laughs. Cold and bitter. Right. And the fact that she didn't protest doesn't mean a thing. Or that _Cas's freaking feather_ is in her apartment? Yeah. No. Nothing. Aiding and abetting is still enough to get you thrown in prison in a lot of places.

"You _mutilated_ him." Dean hisses, looking past Garth's lanky frame to glare into her eyes. The cold, empty stare is all that blinks back at him. How can she care so little? What gives her the right? She did that to Cas and she's...if anything, she seems _smug._ "Is Cas even still _alive?"_

There weren't any photos of him directly.

Dean feels sickened when he realizes how relieved he is by that. But the thought of seeing Cas so bloody...so _hurt_ makes him want to puke. Cas isn't infrangible, he knows that, but this...is something else.

"Last I heard." Bevell answers, careless. Her head cocks, "You struck me as more of a professional than this, Mr. Winchester. Yet you're oddly attached to something that isn't human. It's just a halo."

That's her excuse.

It's just a halo.

_That's the excuse!?_

"His _name_ is Castiel," Dean growls. He fights with Garth for control of the gun, unsuccessful in his efforts. He slams a fist against the hunter's chest in anger, hopelessness, _helplessness,_ but Garth seems unfazed by his violence. His teeth set and he hisses out his rage between them harshly. Garth manages to wrestle the gun from his grip, eyes flicking yellow in clear, silent warning. _Back down._

_No._

They took Cas's wings. "Go to hell."

Bevell huffs, as if this is funny. He can't remember the last time he's wanted to hit someone with a barbed baseball bat more.

"I think," Crowley's voice is toneless, "that some coordinates would be your best path of action. Before we release our attack dog on you."

Attack dog. That's a new one. Better than cockroach.

Dean sneers at him.

Sam's unconscious. Cas is...who knows how Cas is. How long ago did this _happen?_ Bevell said that the last she'd heard Cas was still alive, but when was the last time she checked? Hours? Days? Weeks? He doesn't know what happens to an angel when you do that to them. He wasn't even sure it was possible.

And they…

His fists clench.

Bevell slowly pulls the MacBook towards herself, typing something down on the screen. The confidence of her fingers assures Dean that she's lying. What would it take to draw the truth from her? How on earth are they supposed to find the freakin' Men of Letters if she keeps leading them in circles. She'll die before she talks.

But…

Those cameras. That's live feed. Which means that she's getting a signal from them. Dean may not be the tech-savvy genius of this family, but he's not an idiot. He could pin the source. Which means they don't need her. Just the laptop and a Wi-Fi signal.

_Thank God._

Dean shoves Garth bodily to the side and slams his fist into her face. Bevell is thrown from the chair from the force, smacking the edge of her head against the table's rim. There's a sharp crack from her skull, but he could care less about whether or not she has a concussion or permanent brain damage.

His muscles are pulsing. Burning. Fingers flexing in and out, teeth set.

_More._

_This is not enough._

_She deserves it._

_Lying snake._

"Dean!" Garth exclaims as Crowley makes an indignant noise. Bevell lays in a heap on the floor, blood leaking from her forehead where the table got her. Dean shakes his hand out loosely, turning back to the MacBook without a word of explanation. The photos stare back at him. Bloody. Feathers. _That must have been agony._

"Balls, Winchester!" Garth shouts, "What the heck did you do that for!?"

"We don't need her."

Crowley makes a wordless noise of disagreement.

Dean pulls up the Google maps and hits enter, just to prove his point. The map takes a second to load, lagging as it tries to pull up nearby roads and other locations. It finally settles on a small, isolated McDonalds about thirty minutes from here.

Yeah.

Not that surprised.

Dean slaps the lid down and tucks the laptop under his arm. "They're giving live feed. Which means they're getting a signal. I can get us their location from that."

Garth is still gaping at him like he murdered a small dog. He's not facing Crowley, but he suspects that the demon has gathered himself together. His poker face has always been quick to settle.

Dean's eyes slide to the feather, and his fingers bounce anxiously for a moment before he pulls his sleeve down and reaches across the tabletop to grab it. He's going to return it to Cas. He doesn't care how long it takes, or _what_ it takes to get there, but he's going to give Cas the freakin' feather back. It's the least he can do at this point.

He lost his wings, and all Dean can do is hand him a measly feather.

"And what," Garth asks, patience lost, "do you plan to _do_ exactly once we know where they are? We're only three people, Dean. They're an entire organization."

"Beanpole bears a point." Crowley remarks, idly shoving at Bevell's unconscious body with the edge of his shoe as if to make sure she's not faking it. She rolls listlessly beneath his manhandling, bloodied face rocking up towards them.

Dean thinks of the DefTech 37mm grenade launcher stuffed in the bottom of the duffle he forced Crowley to take when the demon ferried their weapons from the States to London.

His fingers tighten around the MacBook. "I have a few ideas."

000o000

_I need..._

His mouth tastes like blood.

Not like he bit his tongue, or the inside of his cheek. More like when he was sick with the Trials, and coughing it up all the time. When it would linger in the corners of his mouth where his tongue couldn't reach and water wouldn't clean.

_I need…_

_...more._

It's stained across his teeth. When he runs his tongue across the front, he wipes it off, and swallows the bittersweet substance. It feels like glass when it tracks down his throat. _What happened?_ Did he hit his head?

His senses are almost _buzzing._ He can heart the slow beats of his heart with a clarity that isn't normal. Every breath in and out is a rattle.

There's something across the lower half of his face. His nose. It's...not uncomfortable, just...weird. There's a soft hissing, the sound of someone breathing, he can hear the quiet tapping of fingers against some sort of wood.

For a moment, a hesitant, awful moment, Sam thinks he's lying in some sort in-between state of consciousness and reality inside of a motel room. When he opens his eyes, his brother is going to be sitting on the other bed, or at the table, going over papers or looking at some sort of screen, doing that unconscious thing where he moves his fingers. Drumming, tapping—whatever. Dean's always been weirdly aware of his hands.

But it doesn't last.

He can only hold himself inside of this blasé, crass attempt to forget reality for so long before it slips away from him.

_Sammy…_

He's not sure if the voice is inside his head, or outside, but he tenses up anyway. His head lolls away from the direction, shifting against the pillow—pillow?—and the straps of some sort of tubing move against his chest.

_Sam._

Sound feels sort of like he's swimming through something.

Sam keeps his eyes closed, trying to ignore the voice, cling instead to his fantasy. He's five. If he closes his eyes and pretends hard enough, obviously he can bend reality to his will. Despite his mild disgust, Sam doesn't attempt to face the world.

The sharp, acidic pain in his right hand forces him to let go.

Sam jerks up with a garbled gasp, eyes blurrily trying to make connections between where he is and what's happening. He's already trying to move his hand to bring it closer to himself, a base instinct of human pain, but he can't. It's caught on something, and pulling only intensifies the pain.

Sharp, panting hisses strain to pass through the nasual cannulas. He's in a hospital of sorts, restrained to the mattress by his ankles, his hands strangely free. The ceiling above him is broken into large tiles, separated by long metal rods.

His eyes wildly move from the ceiling, down the walls, to his hand.

One of Cas's feathers is stuffed inside the middle of his hand, pinning it to the mattress. Blood is welling, spilling out and painting the white sheets. Blood. Like his mouth. The strong scent of iron arouses something in him.

_(More.)_

He feels sick.

Sam releases a slight noise, reaching out to try and pull the feather from his hand. He knows that removing penetrating objects without immediate medical care is stupid, but he's in some sort of medical ward. And he's not—

A hand wraps around his wrist, halting his progress; fingers tight and restraining. Freezing.

Sam's muscles bunch up. The deep, _deep_ dread that settles into his stomach is one he hasn't felt in a long time. Sam slowly lifts his eyes up from the bloody sheets to the figure on the other side of the bed.

Lucifer's head tips slightly, baring teeth. He looks terrible. Sweaty and disheveled, like he's recovering from a terrible illness. He's hunched over himself just slightly, one hand wound around his vessel's abdomen. He's in a hospital gown, tucked inside some sort of robe. He looks...vulnerable. And...and Sam doesn't know what to _do_ with that.

Lucifer stabbed his hand. That much is pretty obvious. It hurts, but dully.

"Hey, sunshine," Lucifer's voice contains a false levity. He hasn't let go, his grip hard enough that if Sam fights against it, he's afraid the bone will snap. His fingers are starting to go numb. _Yell,_ Sam wants to plead, because anger is predictable, _scream, shout—something._

"You…" Sam doesn't know what to say. All the words he wants to speak are only going to get him hurt. His throat aches, but it's oddly slimy. Like it was, when he, when it, when they—his limbs stiffen. "What did you do?"

Lucifer snorts softly, eyes narrowing a fraction. His words, like everything else about him, is without humor. "I don't know where to be offended or pleased that you assume it was me."

"It's _always_ you!"

Lucifer's grip tightens enough that Sam releases a strangled sound. He yanks against the hand in an effort to ease up the pressure, but it doesn't do anything. Lucifer's fingers are iron. His lip quirks up a fraction, "That so? Well, then, I'm flattered."

Sam's teeth grit together. "Go to hell."

Lucifer leans forward, and Sam pulls back. Lucifer bumps the feather with his elbow, and the spasm that washes through his fingers leaves Sam momentarily breathless. Lucifer's fingers flex slightly, adjusting their grip. "You know, as I was laying there, feeling the Rit Zien pull the bullets from my grace, I couldn't even think. Even when Auntie Amara had me strapped up, I was still present. But you—you _removed_ me. For nearly two hours."

 _I wish it was more,_ he doesn't say, _I wish I shot you in the face. Maybe then you'd be dead._

Sam's tongue pushes against the back of his teeth. Every breath feels like a tentative test against the universe.

"So? You gonna torture me?" The words feel harder when they come out than they were in his mouth. Inside, they feel weak, pliant.

Afraid.

"I could," Lucifer promises, lax. "But laying there, looking up at that ceiling...it just didn't seem to fit." The archangel snorts softly, "I fought Bevell for this detail, y'know that? So when I say something happens, it happens. Oddly satisfying, I gotta say. Demons are so...demonic. But you humans...you're robots. So when I sit up and you're laying in the bed, your heart attempting to give out, you know what I told the Men of Letters?"

Sam's spit tastes like blood.

 _I know,_ he doesn't say.

"We should see if demon blood serves as a catalyst to make him heal faster." Lucifer clicks his tongue. "I'm supposed to be questioning you about Ruby, but I could write a dissertation about your relationship. But _Sammy._ Almost two centuries sober. I'm so disappointed. _Dean_ is going to be so disappointed."

_No—no._

Sam jerks toward him, intending to be violent, but regretting the action as soon as it forms as a distant thought in his mind. Lucifer releases his wrist, but it's only to grab the end of the angel feather and stab it deeper through his hand. Sam releases an agonized sound, eyes squeezing shut despite himself as he tries to learn how to breathe around the pain.

"And we all know how much Sam values big brother's opinion." Lucifer's voice has gained a high edge of mockery.

"Stop...it," Sam forces out. He pulls his eyes open again, only to be met with blurring vision. _It's not like your intestines are being pulled out through your throat. Get a grip,_ he chastises himself. Slow, staggering breaths fill and spill from his lungs. Sam looks down at his left wrist for a moment. The skin is bright red and purpling around the edges. It almost looks frostbitten. But it's not broken. He knows that his left will be a mess. He doesn't want to look at the gore.

_I feel violated. I need to throw up. I have to get this out._

And the quiet thought, unbidden, _I need more._

"You're hopeless," Lucifer sighs.

Sam pulls his arm against his stomach, carefully tucking it as close to himself as he can. "Then why don't you kill me?" The question is an honest one. Wrapped inside spite and hate like a hug. _Stop playing with me, for once, stop playing._

Lucifer _laughs._ "Are you insane? Do you know how much joy it gives me, knowing that you're suffering? You would _beg_ for death. Why do you think I would _give_ you it?" Sam's eyes sting. He feels all of six. "Besides, it would only be temporary. True vessel and all that."

Sam's eyes close. He breathes in. The only thing he expels is fear. Somewhere distant, Sam thinks he's beginning to panic.

_It's not okay. It's not okay. It's not okay—_

"Why?"

His eyes open, catching Lucifer's head cock to the side in slight confusion. "Pardon?"

"You want to hurt me? Fine. But _demon blood?_ " Sam can barely get his tongue to form the words. They feel like condemnation to even speak. _It's in me. Crawling. Like a poison._ "Cas's wings? What are you honestly hoping to achieve here?"

"You think I'm going to explain myself to you?"

Sam could laugh. Decades and decades they spent together. Michael and Adam may have been there, but they were hardly a buffer. Michael didn't care, and Adam…But Lucifer—Sam knows him better than he knows Dean. Than he knows himself.

"You don't have to. I don't know what happened with Chuck and Amara. But if he's not here, he's not coming back. He left you here. And you know what? I bet he's _relieved._ He doesn't want you, how could he, with what you are?" Sam's never been very good at making his words into blades. Digging something open and splaying it to bleed. But the look on Lucifer's vessel—it's as satisfying as it is horrifying.

Lucifer's eyes flare red and flicks with his true face for a heartbeat.

Sam stops breathing. Pinned. _I made a mistake. I shouldn't have—_

The archangel reaches out a hand, and what he intends to do, what he intends to _take,_ Sam doesn't know. He never will. Because at that moment, the ceiling explodes and the world erupts into flame around them.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fire.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some violence, injury.

* * *

The sound of the explosion is deafening.

The world rocking around them feels like he's been punched. He doesn't get thrown from the bed—can't be—but is instead tossed as the entire rolling cot is flipped. Sam collides with Lucifer's vessel, their bodies smacking roughly against each other. The crackle of fire is almost immediate. It must be the chemicals in the room, some part of him distantly tries to piece together.

There's another explosion, echoing from somewhere.

What _is_ that? Are the British Men of Letters under attack? If so, by _who?_ As far as Sam was aware, no one in the States really knows who they are. They're a faded memory, forgotten by history and preferring it that way.

Lucifer's hands are rough as they force Sam off of him, grabbing fistfuls of the hospital gown to shove him back with. Sam shudders beneath the close contact. Lucifer lets him go, rising to hesitant feet, squatted, obviously preparing for a fight.

Distantly, Sam thinks he can hear the sound of a third detonation.

But there isn't any emerging army that swarms through the hole in the ceiling, and after a few moments, Lucifer's posture relaxes fractionally. He looks back at Sam and winks. "Why don't you stay here for a sec? I'll go see who needs to die."

Lucifer doesn't. He seems to jerk in space for a second, fluttering in and out like he's stepping between some sort of wall, then he collapses. One hand wraps around his abdomen, and Sam sees a flicker of his wings—golden, as he remembers—and blood as Lucifer releases a sound of pain, vessel's hand pulling the limb close to hold bloody feathers.

Five.

Lucifer said that the Rit Zien pulled five bullets from his torso. Sam shot him six times. The inconsistency didn't occur to him until just now. Ordinarily, wings in the ethereal plane would have been out of the question on whether or not any damage could be _done._ But these were bullets covered in holy fire...maybe there was some sort of universal exception.

 _Oh,_ Sam thinks.

Then he realizes that he's not going to get another opportunity like this. He yanks the nasal cannula out, pulling the two IV lines. Free from medical equipment, and despite the pain, or maybe because of it, Sam reaches out his left hand to grab the angel feather. He pulls it from his hand with a low moan of pain, cutting his skin almost to bone on his left.

He keeps gripping the feather, reaching out to cut the restraints around his ankles with the blade. He slides sharply, ramming his hip against the hard tile. Then he's scrambling up to his feet. The room is on fire. It leaves him momentarily breathless with a hopeless, helpless panic. The last time that he was surrounded by this much fire was the Cage.

And Lucifer is right behind him, sputtering…

And—

No.

_Focus. You're here. Not there. Topside. Pain. Your hands are a mess of it; feel that? Topside pain. Topside._

Just—just breathe.

Sam's eyes scan the room, looking for the exit, forcing his brain to be analytical, not emotional. Cas. He's gotta...if this is an attack, he doesn't know what they're _here_ for. A softer, almost muted part of his mind suggests it would be easier for a rescue if he and the angel were together. _(A rescue. Right.)_

But the room has caved almost entirely. Sam gets the sick feeling the only reason he and Lucifer were in some sort of "bubble" was because of the archangel's interference.

There's a hole in the ceiling. Sam squints at it, spotting sunlight for the first time since he was taken captive. It stings, but he moves towards it anyway. Out is up, and up means that the fire won't be everywhere. And Sam will disappear again; to Lucifer, that is. The sigils on his ribs are perfectly intact. He won't be able to find him.

_But he did it before._

_That's how he got here._

He can't think about that. Sam scrambles up the ramp the ceiling makes towards the ground, and glances back once. Lucifer is still curled where he left him. Eyes flaring in and out with red as he attempts to manage the pain. It's not, Sam realizes, like he could have told the Rit Zien his wings were in need of assistance—not without revealing who he is.

However it is he hid it.

If he did.

If—

 _Stop._ It's not his problem anymore.

(How can it not be? It always is. If it's related to Lucifer, Sam gets tangled up in it. They're like magnets.)

Sam scrambles up the ramp-like fallen area of the collapsed ceiling on bloody feet, scraping them against electrical wiring, broken pipe, and sharp edges of plaster and metal. When he emerges, the sunlight is blinding. He squints, hobbling forward, sweeping his eyes across the surrounding area. Thick dust and smoke is rising everywhere, making it hard to see anything beyond blurred shapes.

He keeps blinking, trying to register colors that aren't the murky gray of the London Chapterhouse's base.

There's a long road nearby stretching out in either direction for miles. It's grassy hillsides around the asphalt, the only building Sam can see a lone McDonalds, the bright yellow "M" sticking out cheerfully in the smoke and dust. A group of figures lingers outside of it, but he's not close enough to make out any distinct features. He doesn't recognize the car, which immediately squashes any lingering hopes.

It's not the Impala.

It's not Dean.

This isn't a rescue.

Sam looks back at the sinkhole, parsing. He can't leave Cas here...but he can't _do_ anything, either. He's not exactly in the state to do a frontal assault on the London Chapterhouse's underground bunker, but he can't…

Indecision wars within him for a long, weighted moment.

Lucifer is still down there. He's not going to be crippled by the pain forever, that much is clear. He's going to get up. And Sam doesn't want to _be_ here when he crawls his way out. His eyes squeeze close for a moment, dust settling inside his lungs. _I'm not going to leave you here,_ he prays to Cas wordlessly, _I'm going to come back. I promise._

If he can get a phone, he can call Dean. If he can call Dean, they can plan a rescue. He can...he can make it to a phone. It can't be that far away.

He turns, and starts running in the opposite direction of the McDonalds.

000o000

Something is happening. He can smell the smoke. Sense the heightened heart rates of the humans around him. The sound of fire in the distance. The pulsing pain of Sam's murmured, hurried prayer...and then nothing.

The vague connections don't offer any real meaning he can decipher. His mind is muddled.

He doesn't move. He doesn't care. Let it come. Let it take him.

He remains utterly still, forgetting to breathe, then sucking it in when his vessel demands it. Time has lost meaning to him. He doesn't know how long before the first explosion hit that he lays here before the door to the cell is slammed open, all but thrown from its hinges with unprecedented force.

He doesn't tilt his head back to see who it is. What it is. If it means safety or harm.

He stares at the wall. He doesn't blink. He lets his limbs remain lax. Hopes silently that whatever it is will gut him with an angel sword and be done with it.

"Cas?" The following obscenity is filled with relief. " _Cas._ Thank God. Hey—c'mon man, we gotta go."

That sounds pressing.

How unfortunate.

"Cas?" Words are too heavy. He can't respond. A hand lightly touches his shoulder, close, so close, to the mutilated stumps. _Don't touch me,_ he wants to screech. Castiel doesn't startle. The rough ridges of the fingertips are warm, but surprisingly gentle. They tighten only when he continues to remain unresponsive, lightly rolling him onto his back.

The pain leaves him breathless, but he doesn't moan.

He feels very far away.

A following slur of swearing, then he's being gently propped up, care taken into making sure the bloody gauges aren't pressed against anything. "—sorry, sorry—" the voice murmurs, the undertone of rage present. _Is it for me?_ Castiel wonders, but it's a vague background thought.

"—d, Cas, I don't…" the voice says, and a hand lightly taps his vessel's cheek. Castiel registers dully the sight of a figure in front of him. They look faintly familiar. "Hey, look, you can do this...catatonia thing later, okay? But you gotta get up now. Cas?"

 _No_ , Castiel thinks, and does nothing.

"Cas, please. Please, you gotta...don't do this. Please. Castiel?" There's a shuffle, another curse, then a murmured, "screw it" before Castiel's limbs are being gently maneuvered and he's pulled into arms. Fireman's carry, Castiel's heard the Winchesters refer to it as. It's uncomfortable, straining the healing gashes, but beyond whispering a soft protest against the pain, there's nothing he can do.

The pain is there, always.

And it's not going to _go._

_They took them from me._

Castiel must zone out—he's struggled to stay completely present since... _since—_ because the next thing he knows, he's being manhandled inside of a car—not the Impala, some sort of van—and there's a large argument in the process of being fought out.

He's leaning up against someone, a warm forearm just above the bloody gashes to keep his skin to serve as a buffer between the metal of the car.

There are more angels here, Castiel realizes. He can recognize the feeling of their grace around him like a dull throb. Abruptly, he feels shame wash through him. _They're going to see. They're going to_ know. His teeth press together, and he feels mildly startled at the action. He moved in reaction to something.

But of course, _of course_ it would be for this.

_I'm broken._

_There's no fixing this._

_They took them._

He shrinks against whoever's supporting him, feeling like a fledgling. Hiding himself behind them, like they can honestly protect him from his siblings' stares. He doesn't want this. He wishes he had the capability for sleep. Or that unconsciousness wasn't terrifying. He would beg for it.

"Hey." And the argument takes a momentary lapse, the man shifting to rest a hand on his arm. "It's okay. You're good, Cas, I promise. Just...just hang tight alright? We just gotta find Sam then we can get out of here."

The verbal fight launches up once more as someone protests.

Sam…

Sam.

The memory of the last time he saw him plays through his mind. Sam laying on the bench, asleep, refusing to get up, bodily functions failing him. Thin and sickly, looking days from death. But yet...he prayed...didn't he? Yes. He said something about coming back...but...if he's coming back he's not _there._

Castiel parts dry lips. His mouth tastes like acid and wounded grace. It takes him a few tries to get any sound out. "Sam's...not...there." He murmurs. His entire body shudders at the reaction. _I don't want to do this._ It's easier to not be aware. To not feel the skin of his back splitting and raw with every inhale his vessel demands.

"What?" The first voice asks, stopping mid-sentence. "Cas? What do you mean? Cas? Cas?!"

But he can't repeat it. He can't explain. It's too much. He just sits there, looking forward blankly. A hand snaps fingers in front of his eyes, and he doesn't react. More cursing, then the argument runs dry.

The vehicle begins to move.

The grip against him adjusts as Castiel almost topples to keep him upright, head lolling back, resting against a shoulder.

"I gotcha, brother," the voice murmurs, "just hang on. You're gonna be fine."

Such sweet placation.

Castiel almost believes Dean.

000o000

Later, he doesn't know when, he doesn't care when, Castiel becomes aware that he's lying on his stomach on something hard. The floor, maybe. The collar is gone. For the first time in weeks, his grace is flowing through his vessel without restraint or argument. The surge of awareness this gives him makes him acutely aware that someone is standing over him.

His back is bare.

A hand is reaching for the skin.

_Cutting, burning, slicing, ripping, tearing, absence—_

" _No!"_ Castiel screeches, surging upward, thrusting out with his grace. The world sways, but steadies, and there's a skittering _thump._ He's in a decently-sized bathroom, laying on the floor next to the sink. It's running water, a small wet towel hanging off the edge. It's all he processes before he's scrambling from away from the body, moving for the open door. The movement of his shoulders splits the skin and he feels blood trickle down his vessel's spine.

Spilling, painting.

Angels can't bleed grace, but Castiel feels like he's leaking it everywhere. He needs to cap it, but he doesn't know how. He can hear it whining softly, a ring that grates against his nerves.

He staggers out the washroom into what looks like some version of the motel rooms Sam and Dean have frequented over the years. There's a human soul in one corner, seated at a table behind a computer, four other angels besides himself in various areas of the room. Humiliation washes through him at their presence. He sees the decrypted state of their wings. But they're _attached._

The skin of his back feels raw. Exposed. _Empty._

"...Castiel?" One of the angels murmurs, but it sounds more like a guess. Castiel doesn't recognize any of them. The Rit Zien he spoke to before is missing. None of them are a seraph like he is, lower class, but not pointless. Warriors, not leaders. More fallen.

Castiel freezes. This isn't the Men of Letter's Bunker. _Of course it's not,_ he chides himself silently, _you just spoke to Dean._

Dean.

Where…? The human, standing now, isn't the hunter. Then...oh. The thought of turning around and to face the bathroom and see what damage he inflicted makes him physically sick. But he's leaving his back exposed no matter where he stands. Air tickles it, but it feels like a knife.

"Brother?" A different angel asks, sounding nothing short of horrified. "What happened to you?"

"Where are your wings?"

Castiel's breath cramps inside his lungs. He doesn't know what to say. _Cutting, slicing, burning, gone, gone, gone—_

"Castiel, hey," the other human says, lifting up his hands in a gesture of surrender and a silent command to calm down. He's not unarmed, and Castiel shifts slightly, caught between wanting to bolt and wanting to find Dean. He can't see Sam, and his stomach coils with vivid disappointment.

 _I'm going to come back,_ Sam promised.

 _I'm not going to be there,_ Castiel thinks in response, feeling cold.

"Just...take a breath, okay?" the second human suggests. "You're looking a little peaky there." Castiel lets wild eyes flicker over him, then return to the other angels. Staring. Watching. Curious, but disgusted. The damage Castiel has inflicted to himself is almost too numerous to keep proper track of. But this...this is something else _entirely._

"Cas?" Dean's voice. Behind him.

Castiel feels himself stiffen, drawing tight. His arms wrap around his chest, as if he pulls himself tight enough, he can hide inside this skin. The pain that ripples through his shoulders is immense. He's caught breathless for a second, somewhere between needing to cry and wanting to scream.

"Cas?" Dean's closer now, and when Castiel dares a slow turn of his head, the hunter is standing there. His face is drawn together with anxiety. Lips tight, eyes creased, brow lined. It's the first time, Castiel realizes, that he's seen the eldest Winchester in weeks. He looks terrible. Thinner than Castiel remembers, hair a long mess, and sporting several days worth of stubble. He looks like he's been wearing the same pair of clothing for days.

He reeks of alcohol.

There's thick bandages wrapped around his palms, extending up inside his shirt's sleeves.

"Why don't you sit down?" Dean suggests, reaching out a hand to touch him, but Castiel flinches away. Dean's hand drops, lips tightening further. Castiel looks back towards the bathroom with longing. He has little desire to remain out here, where he's being stared at all from every side. It's making it hard to breathe.

Dean must follow his line of sight, because he's herding Castiel back toward the bathroom without contact, saying something to the other human, then closing the door and pointing vaguely toward the edge of the tub. "We gotta get you cleaned up. Sit."

Castiel doesn't.

Dean looks back at him, wringing out the rag. Water leaks out into the sink, spilling into the drain. The hunter pauses for a moment, staring at his face. Neither of them move, staring at each other. Eyes locked. Castiel looks away first.

Dean sets the rag down on the sink's rim with deliberate slowness. The bandages on his hands are damp, the moistness making them ineffective. "Cas," Dean's voice has dropped an octave, an obvious attempt to be calming. Like he's talking to a skittish animal. "You're okay. I promise. Nothing's going to get you here."

Castiel blinks.

Dean tries for a smile. It's strained, and looks painful to produce. "You're good. Just...just sit down, okay? Can you do that?"

Castiel slowly sits on the edge of the tub, stiff, his leg cramping dully in the echo of a bullet hole. He can smell his vessel's blood, feels his grace making a weak attempt to heal the wounds. But it's useless. Wounds to grace and, by extension, wings can only be healed by other angels or time. There is no instant fix to this.

"Okay," Dean nods to himself, taking the rag and toeing down the toilet lid with his boot before sitting down on it in front of Castiel. He smiles tightly again. "Can I have your hands?"

Castiel can't fathom why. But he lifts his vessel's hands up after a long moment to process the words. Dean takes his left hand by the wrist and pulls it towards himself, wiping the rag across the fingertips. Castiel blinks hazily, following the action and realizes that his hands are covered in fresh blood. His vessel's. He must have got it over his hands.

Dean cleans them both, staining the rag and his own bandages a red-pink against the white. The ministrations of the action seem to cause him pain.

When Dean is satisfied that his fingers aren't such a mess anymore, he starts to get up, maybe to clean out the rag. Castiel grabs his wrist, halting any progress. Dean stiffens, looking back towards him with a frantic intensity. "Cas? You there?"

 _Where else am I going to be?_ Castiel thinks mournfully.

He doesn't say anything, just grabs the edge of the bandage around Dean's left hand and starts to unwrap it. Dean sinks back down slowly, his hand tense inside of Castiel's. Revealed beneath the bandage is a long span of cuts, as if Dean grabbed something sharp from all edges. Like that plant. A...cactus, is it?

The sight pulls at something in him. He's supposed to be the Winchester's guardian. And all he's managed to do for weeks now is stand idly by while Dean gets beaten, and Sam is tortured. His wings are gone, but he's been useless for much, much longer than this.

But this...he can do something about this.

"It's really not that bad," Dean offers as Castiel turns the limb from side to side. He can smell the infection. It's been cleaned, but it's deep, and the lack of stitching has only made things worse. What were they doing, that this took less precedence? Stretching out around his wrist are yellow bruises and mostly scabbed over wounds in the shape of chain links. The kind of deep gouging humans get when they're suspended by the wrists for a long time. Dean winces slightly at the sight. "Really. Though. It's okay. It hurt at the time, obviously, but...not my first rodeo, y'know?"

Castiel sighs. Pulling on the dregs of his grace, Castiel reaches out two fingers and presses them against Dean's forehead. The elder Winchester's entire body lurches up slightly, an edge of exhaustion and pain wiped away from his stance and face.

Dean's hands flex in and out, and he looks down at his palms, turning them over, something unreadable in his gaze.

Castiel lets him go. He sits back slightly, resting his forearms across his knees. _There. I can do something,_ he tries to placate himself. But it matters little in the span of things. Because there were, at a minimum, five angels within the Men of Letters' base, and all of them had their wings, tattered and burned as they were. They were whole. Maybe not unharmed, but _whole_ because...

Because _Castiel_ is the one that they choose to take them from.

 _Castiel_ is the broken angel they weren't afraid to destroy further.

 _Castiel_ is the one they amputated.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Magical healing.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gore. Injury.

* * *

It didn't feel real until now. The rescue. It felt like some sort of wild, aching dream. It's not until Cas responds to him, hands cold, but firm, that Dean can give himself permission to believe. So Dean stares down at his hands, turning them over, as if doing so is going to reveal something different than the last fifteen times. The pain that has accompanied him like a shadow is gone. The lulling burn of the cuts and the bruises from the chains...everything.

Dean didn't ask.

Cas didn't offer.

And he still…even though he's obviously in pain, even though he should be using his grace for himself, even though Dean wasn't bleeding out. It's _his_ pain that pulled Cas from catatonia, not his own, but Dean's. And Dean doesn't know what exactly to do with this information. "Cas…" He says, but lets it draw out, because he doesn't know how to continue.

And then he looks up at Cas, and all thoughts about the healing slip away from him.

Cas blinks at him. Lethargic. Distant. Arms crossed across his knees, gaze a thousand yards away; forward, but seeing something else entirely. He doesn't look any better than he did earlier.

Dirty, blood covered, hair lightly damp with sweat, face bleached of color, lightly trembling and looking to be at war between passing out and giving up the ghost.

Dean doesn't know if the catatonia is an effort to manage the pain or a reaction to the loss of his wings. Maybe both?

Cleaning... he's cleaning. And...and he should carry on with that. Because that's what he was doing. No. What he was going to.

Dean bites on the inside of his cheek for a moment to ground himself, and then he gets to his feet. Cas doesn't stop him this time. Dean's lips press together in disappointment. He's careful to keep the angel within sight in the mirror's reflection as he wrings blood from the rag. He makes sure that the water is warm, but not painful.

He turns around and grabs the med kit off the edge of the sink. When he'd started this almost ten minutes ago, Cas hadn't been responding to him period. He'd slipped away sometime in the drive here and hadn't come back until he threw Dean across the room. His shoulder took a majority of the abuse, but he can't feel it anymore. Curtsy of the angel in front of him.

Dean had been intending to sit him down and do what he could for the mess that is his back and shoulders, even if it was just cleaning them. He hadn't expected the violent reaction when he'd reached down to start wiping the dried blood off.

But whatever energy that pulled Cas from his inert state has ebbed off again, leaving behind a blinking shell and little else. Dean doesn't know what he was expecting when he found Cas, but it wasn't...this. This _absence._ Cas should've been pissed. Ready to fight, or exact revenge—something. But Cas has barely said ten words—if that—since Dean found him in that cell.

Dean's teeth press together.

He turns back to face the angel properly. Cas isn't looking at him, just where he was.

Dean crosses the distance between them, taking a seat in front of him on the toilet lid again. The rag is damp with warm water in his hands. "Cas?" Dean tries, waiting, knowing better than to hope but doing so anyway.

Nothing.

It reminds Dean a little of the first few weeks inside of Rufus's cabin after Cas broke the Great Wall of Sam down. How Sam would be there and then he'd just...wasn't. Blanking out, winking, like a candle that needed constant maintenance to remember it needed to burn.

Sam always came back.

Even when Dean was terrified he wouldn't.

This may be similar, but it isn't the same. "Listen," Dean says, and Cas gives no indication that he is. "We've got a couple angels out there _"—Obviously. He froze up when he saw them—_ "They gonna be any help with...with your wings?" Dean tries not to swallow the word. He doesn't feel like he phrased that right, but he doesn't know what would have been better.

Cas blinks, far away.

 _C'mon,_ he pleads silently _, say something. Do something. Give me proof of life here._

Nothing.

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, shaking his head to clear it, trying to gather himself together. He can't fix this by putting a band-aid on it. He's not Cas. He can't fix physical injury by tapping his fingers against someone's forehead.

The sincere bitterness at this fact startles him.

 _He'll be fine, he has to be. He just needs time._ Time they don't have. Cas needs help _now._ Dean doesn't know what will happen if the amputation sights continue to be left open.

And Cas is the only person who might have the slightest inkling where Sam is. Crowley swept the building inside out, looking where Dean didn't. His brother wasn't there.

"Cas, you gotta talk to me," Dean pleads softly, "I can't help you if you don't talk. Are the angels out there gonna be of any help to this? Because they might be a mess, but if they can do something…" Dean will make them if he has to.

Even though the memory of their gratitude and tears at a rescue makes him slightly ill.

Cas comes first.

The angel does nothing. Says nothing. Looks at nothing.

Okay. _Okay._ Dean will do what he can, then he'll talk with the angels out there. He's seen them heal each other. Maybe this won't be any different. If Dean could just...find Cas's wings...is there a chance that they could just...reattach them? Kevin lost fingers, and Castiel healed them. Would this really be any different?

_They're attached to his grace, you nimwit. You really think there's going to be a ctrl Z for that?_

"Alright." Dean sighs, "You're a mess, and you smell. I'm going to clean your back up, and pray that you're conscious enough to do the rest yourself." The last part is muttered, quietly, to himself.

He expels air slowly, then reaches out a hand to touch Cas's shoulder. The angel straightens slightly at the contact, but doesn't bodily pull away as he did earlier. Cas's skin is only slightly warm.

Angel vessels don't really hold heat. They have a tendency to just remain room temperature, or outside temperature, depending where they are. Dean remembers vividly it was one of the most peculiar things to Cas when he was falling after Lucifer was released to actually start registering temperatures. Like no, Dean and Sam weren't crazy because they complained about it being cold, or hot, or whatever.

"I'm going to touch it, your back," Dean warns, "just...don't throw me across the room this time, okay?"

Nothing.

"Guess I'll take that as permission." Dean sighs.

Dean slowly turns the angel around, making sure to keep his movements slow and easy to follow if Cas decides to drop in from whatever cloud his head's hanging out in. The sight that greets him is no less gruesome than it was before, and Dean's eyes tighten at the corners.

Long, equally ragged gashes stretch from about the middle of the shoulder blade to the base of the spine. There's about two inches of space between them. The wounds are several centimeters in thickness, skin split in a way that reminds Dean of werewolf claws raking across flesh. The center isn't torn muscle, bone, and blood. It's white-blue grace, tinted in a way that makes it almost look sickly.

Blood is staining everywhere, painting Cas's back a sickly deep red. It's flaked, having dried once, split open to bleed then dry again, but not healed. When Dean found him, there weren't even any bandages, almost as if they were waiting for something to happen. The only reason that he hasn't bled out is because of blood is fairly meaningless to an angel.

_I have no idea what I'm doing._

Keeping his hand on Cas's shoulder as both restraint and support, Dean lifts the rag up to wipe some of the blood away, staring at the base of his neck. Cas jerks faintly beneath him, but it's more like a death throe than anything else.

Dean hesitates, waiting for violence, but Cas does nothing further. It's only when it doesn't happen Dean realizes how much he'd been hoping it would. Because that would mean Cas is _here._ He chews on his inner lip, then turns back to his task.

Dean presses a little harder, wiping away grime and blood, revealing pale skin beneath. When Cas continues to not fling him, Dean starts to pick up speed, moving as quickly, but effectively, as he can. He gets up, cleans out the rag and returns, continues on.

Dean should say something. Talk mindlessly. Reassure. _Something._ But Dean can't get words out as the extent of what was done settles over him like a blanket. And it's not like Cas is even _here-here_ to listen.

When all that's left is the patch of torn, abused skin between where the two wings should have been sitting, Dean grits his teeth. He wishes that this felt more like he was helping then providing more torment, but that's probably the place that bacteria is going to have a heyday at. He pushes down on the skin.

Cas's back arches, a ragged sound pulled from him. It's the first exclamation of pain he's given. Hoarse, small, and agonized.

"Cas!" Dean quickly pulls back, adjusting his grip on the angel's shoulder as he starts to shake, breathless with wet pain. "Cas, hey, relax. You're safe. You're good. I know it hurts."

Cas's head raises a fraction, and Dean moves around him to glance at his face. Electric blue eyes meet his own, and for the first time, Dean feels like Cas is really _seeing_ him. "Please," Cas's voice is ragged. It makes Dean wince to hear. "It hurts, please, _please..._ "

_He spoke._

_He's here._

_He's—_

"I know," Dean promises, dredging up a smile, trying to reassure, but feeling incapable. _I don't,_ he thinks with more force, _know what to do._ "I know. But we can't leave it as it is."

"Please…"

Dean squeezes his shoulder. Cas doesn't calm, agitation freely spilling across his face. Dean feels more words falling out of him, "I gotcha, just keep breathing. We're almost done."

"I can't…can't," Cas's voice has the edge of an exhausted slur. "Please, stop,"

The tone pulls at something in his stomach. It's sort of begging that you make when you really aren't expecting someone to comply with you.

Dean wars with himself, the urge to keep pushing, simply to get it over with, but knowing that Cas is requesting a breather the contestants. He chews on his bottom lip. "Let's...let's wait a sec." Dean decides after a moment. Cas's shoulders drop. Dean didn't realize how tightly wound up he was. Cas's eyes shy away from him, flickering back and forth, staring at the dirty bathtub wall. Yellowing, cracking plaster, and some type of mold growing in one corner.

All things considered though, it's actually one of the cleaner bathrooms he's seen. This is definitely not the high class of London anymore. Bevell's apartment manager would probably have a heart attack at the sight of the place, several steps down from their own opulent flats.

Dean worries his lower lip between his teeth, hand still resting on Cas's shoulder, his other gripping the rag. He needs to wring it out again, but a part of him is terrified that if he lets go of Cas, the angel is going to collapse and won't get up again.

Cas's eyes linger on the mold in the corner for a long moment, then his eyes lift slowly towards Dean. His brow is furrowed lightly, head canted like that weirdly bird part of him demands. "Dean?" The sound of his name, ragged and hoarse as it is, makes his eyes sting with relief.

"Yeah?" Dean answers after a second.

Cas's eyes pull away. His fists clench on his lap, momentarily quelling their tremble and a shudder rushes through him, followed by a grimace. "You need...to talk with them."

"Who?"

"Angels," Cas's eyes shut. "You can't fix this."

Dean knows that. He has since he saw the wounds. But hearing them spoken out loud, especially by Cas, feels like he just got rammed in the kidney with a baseball bat. Strangely, a part of him wants to protest, insisting that he'll magically be able to pull the answers out of a hat. But he's dealing with things he doesn't understand here, and Cas's health is one of the last things he wants to wing it with.

He releases his lip. It's bloody from his worrying. "Okay." It tastes like defeat. He remains where he is. "Should I finish cleaning your back up, or do you"—and back up those shoulders go, tense and awaiting the pain—"...want me to stop?"

Cas's eyes slide away. "Finish it."

"...You sure?"

The angel looks at him. "No."

And that's that. Honesty, brutal as it is, and Dean unwilling to let this go. He bites on his lip again, starting to work off a layer of skin with his teeth. He pats Cas's shoulders twice in reassurance and then shifts around so he's facing the wounds again. He squints a little at the light of the grace, then breathes out slowly. "Let me know if you need a breather, okay?"

Cas gives a slight cant of his head forward. It's more of a response than he was getting earlier, so Dean has no complaints for this.

Dean presses the rag down. Cas moans lowly, fists clenching tight enough his already pale knuckles go white. "Cas?"

"I'm fine."

 _Don't sound the part,_ Dean keeps to himself. He sighs between his teeth and moves the rag down. He wipes the blood, the grime, and some sort of black sticky-thing away. He tries to be fast, but Cas is still lightly shaking and looking close to passing out by the time he's done. Dean throws the rag into the sink with one hand, glad to be rid of it. Any thoughts of pouring antiseptic or putting any creams on the gashes are going to have to wait.

"We're done, you can take a breath," Dean promises.

Cas inhales sharply, exhaling in a stutter. "Get...get them." A pause, "please."

"Okay," Dean agrees, wanting nothing more than to remain here, "just...don't move." _You're hilarious Winchester,_ he chides himself silently, _Cas is going to pass out. You think he's going to be running any marathons?_

Dean lets him go. Cas steadies after a moment, then blinks, and Dean can almost see him slipping away into his mental hiding place again. _Please stay with us,_ Dean pleads silently, then takes the needed steps to the bathroom door so he can open it. The wood is thin, but it feels like inches-thick barrier for all that his mind is concerned. As it swings in, Dean is once again struck with the scent of dust and old fabric. His nose wrinkles, but it's better than the blood and infection he's been inhaling for the better part of twenty minutes.

Garth looks up at him from behind Bevell's MacBook, a silent question on his face, spinning his wedding ring around his fourth finger. Dean shakes his head a little, looking towards the angels. All of them are already on their feet, as wobbly their stance is. They're divine beings, Dean remembers; they probably heard every word that Dean and Cas spoke. Garth, too. Well. The door was absolutely pointless, then. Always a happy realization.

Freakin' supernatural senses.

"Cas wants to talk with one of you," Dean gestures vaguely towards the angels. All of them start to move forward, and Dean lifts up a hand, "whoa, guys. I mean, like _one,_ you don't all need to charge in there."

The four share a collective look. They're jumpy, and have the sort of hyper awareness that Dean associates with PTSD and prisoners of war. They've only spoken a few words of English to them, and that was only after he and Garth removed the collars with the keycard Garth thought to nick from one of the guards.

"Castiel is our brother," one of the angels murmurs, inside the vessel of an older man. He's been the collective voice of the group. He wouldn't give his name when Dean asked, but said instead that Dean and Garth could call him Echo. Names have power, Dean knows, and just because they freed them doesn't mean that trust is a given. "We will all see to him."

Something uncomfortable settles in his gut at the way the words are spoken, but Dean swallows back protest. Cas asked for this. Cas is the one with the missing limbs, not him, ergo: whatever he asks for, he's going to get. Dean casts a quick glance towards Garth, then nods. He steps back into the bathroom, crosses the distance between himself and Cas, then stands next to the angel.

Cas painstakingly turns his head around to look back towards the entrance as the four angel vessels cram into the space. He wobbles a fraction, and reaches out a hand to snag Dean's forearm for balance. His grip is painful in its intensity, but Dean automatically shifts to account for the weight.

There's a soft, but vehement curse in Enochian from the only female vessel among the four as she takes in the wounds. She asks something in the language. Cas hesitates, then answers in a soft whisper. Echo offers a reply to that, to which Cas's lips pull in. There's a few more traded sentences from all of them, and Echo draws closer. Their words pick up, talking back and forth for the better part of the next two minutes.

All Dean can do is listen, trying to understand, but only picking out a few words. The language is grating, but oddly melonic. Like someone playing a harp loudly in an effort to drown out the sound of nails raking down a chalkboard. Dean's only really heard it spoken in spells or the occasional frantic bubble of words from Sam after a nightmare, but conversation is something else. It's not a fast language—at least, compared to Japanese.

Dean watches with a growing wariness. The words he can pick out aren't boding well. He's by no means fluent, but Cas made a halfhearted attempt to teach him in Purgatory. Hunt-kill-survive was wired into their hardware there, but a year is a long time.

Echo takes a step forward, hand hovering over the gash where Cas's left wing should be. His hand glows with the soft white light of grace, eyes closing in concentration, fingers beginning to shake with effort. Cas's eyes tighten with discomfort, then pain, grip cementing around Dean's forearm.

What are they…?

Dean sees the skin on Cas's back straining to form across the gashes in weird zigzagging patterns, like some sort of sickly stitches. Echo murmurs something, and the woman vessel steps forward, offering her assistance. The other two remain behind, looking.

"Cas?"

"Wait." Cas grits out in response to his question.

Echo stops with a strained breath, pulling back, shaking his head. He says something rapidly in Enochian to Cas, a warning, maybe a promise going by the tone. Cas doesn't look to be present for it. The fresh skin splits open again, revealing not grace, but flesh, muscle, and bone this time. Dean watches with horror as the skin breaks like a papercut. Up and up and up until it recreated it's previous injury, sans a glowing white center.

_What the h—?_

Cas leans forward and throws up.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (Late) Halloween! Look guys, I made it halfway through whumptober actually in October. :)
> 
> Prompt: Forced to beg.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone else for your support and continued interest. Sorry for the delay, y'all have AngelFishOfTheLord to thank for this chapter.
> 
> Warnings: Anxiety, mentions of drug (in the form of demon blood) use.

* * *

_My eyes feel like they're burning._ In the midst of everything, with his vessel's skin splitting anew, and the infection forcefully pushing itself from his system, it's an odd sensation to focus on. But that doesn't make it any less true. They're raw, tired, aching, and pained. The tears that linger there don't help ease the ache, only to increase it.

He dry heaves. He doesn't eat, and there's little in his system save some bile and water to come up. It's water and filmy, with a reddish tinge he knows to be human blood. His insides are torn, spitting out their pain through his mouth.

_Jimmy, what I've done to you..._

His entire body is throbbing dully, and he can't hold himself. He tumbles. Dean's arms wrap around his torso, catching him before he can fall forward into the pile of sickness. He's trembling, shaking like he's suffering from the beginning of hypothermia.

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, trying to ease the sensation of pain. Adjust to it, maybe. The urge to keep dry heaving is strong. He coughs, weak, tired, and on the brink of a breakdown. More tears linger at the edges of his eyes, but these are ones of helplessness, not pain.

Castiel's shaking hand comes away smeared with red when he wipes from his face. His nose is bleeding, he realizes belatedly.

"That's—Cas. What the—!?" Dean exclaims, swearing, his grip tightening to almost painful in its intensity. "What did you do, Echo!?"

 _Who?_ Castiel's heavy eyes draw up, lifting towards the angels. Echo. That must be...oh. A pseudonym, then. Names have power. Castiel understands his hesitancy to speak his true name, even if he doesn't share it. Not here. Not with the Winchesters.

Ez _—Echo_ gives a derisive sound, trying to reach out for Castiel's shoulder, but Dean tugs him back a little. Castiel moans in protest, grabbing at Dean's warm forearm. His grip is weak, and could easily be shaken off, but Dean stills like Castiel has severed his arm. "Dean." He mumbles.

"Did you see what they did!?" Dean protests.

No. But he can feel it. Echo warned him that it would be painful, but they had to force his wings back into the ether if they're ever going to heal. He can still feel them, stinging, burning, but it's a dull ache, wrapped in the pain that his vessel is experiencing. His shoulders ache, and his spine still pulses with the phantom pull of wing bones being yanked and detached from Jimmy's spine.

His stomach churns.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to blank out the memories, focus on something— _anything_ else. The floor. There's a weird stain beside the tub that looks suspiciously orange, and it's browning on the rifts between the pieces of gray tile. It looks as though it has been cleaned, but halfheartedly, and a few months ago.

"Let us help, Dean Winchester. We mean him no harm," Echo says in soft English.

"I might be more willing to believe that if you didn't just _split his freakin' back open!_ "

"Dean," Castiel sighs, his voice still low and hoarse. He can feel Dean's attention slide toward him. He tightens his grip on the man's arm, and blinks his eyes open with effort. "They had to." He tries to explain, "They can help."

He can't see Dean's expression, but can almost picture the list of his lips as he frowns, warring with himself. But reason wins over instinct, and Dean stops shielding him. Castiel didn't even realize that the hunter had ducked him in a way that he was covering the bloody wounds until Dean pulls away. "Fine," Dean's voice is pressed out between his teeth, "but you do anything to make it worse and I'm stabbing you in the eye."

Castiel breathes out quietly to himself. They won't fix this with violence. He thinks, distantly, some part of him is reassured by Dean's threats. Dean threatening harm means he cares, and if he cares, that must mean that Castiel hasn't exceeded his limit to the Winchesters' kindness yet.

Even if…

_If._

Echo shifts closer, resting a hand on Castiel's bare shoulder. The pads of the angel's fingers are warm to the point of uncomfortable, and Castiel's lips press together in discomfort. There's a faint hum of grace, and the residue of power lingering in the air before Castiel feels the familiar burning lull of being knit back together. The process is only uncomfortable, not painful, but it couldn't be over fast enough.

Echo draws back, and Castiel no longer feels airbrushing around open wounds.

It's healed. On the exterior. The skin may be whole, but the knived off stumps of his wings and the muscle of his vessel will take much longer. The pain will just become a companion to him, but that's not as unusual as he'd like it to be lately.

He releases a breath, "Thank you."

Echo nods.

Dean's hand lightly touches the top of the area, as if trying to make sure it's not some elaborate illusion. Castiel doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. It's almost been eight years since he met the Wincheters, but he still struggles to grasp how often humans touch each other. Angels make a habit of standing close, but that's about it.

"Castiel," a different angel speaks up, and Castiel's head lifts slowly. The words are in Enochian. One of the two angels closer to the door is staring at him stoically, hands crossed over a broad chest. Armian, Echo said. His only sister present, Ikoira, shifts slightly at the voice as well, frowning. "Why do you reek of Lucifer's grace? He taints you."

Castiel flinches, his stomach dropping to his feet. Horror isn't a close enough word to what he feels. Lucifer is _on_ him? But Castiel was only a vessel, he wasn't—oh. _Oh._ Angels leave behind grace, an echo of their presence, in every vessel they take. Castiel served as the host. He may have been inhabiting this body for longer than Lucifer ever did, but it doesn't matter.

He was here.

And now it's a stain Castiel can scrub out.

Just like there's faint traces of it in Sam.

"I…" Castiel fumbles for words. He still feels dizzy, and he doesn't think his legs would hold him if he tried to stand. "We needed him. For Amara. And he needed a host."

And Castiel was not going to let it be Sam. Or Dean.

" _Amara?"_ Echo repeats, taking a physical step back, a surge of uneased power making the lights flicker in the bathroom. "The _Darkness_ has been released!? I felt the shift in the cosmos while in captivity, but I was not under the impression that you had sealed us to our doom!"

He supposes there's a bitter irony here, that Echo immediately assumes that it's _his_ fault that Amara was released.

They haven't, Castiel realizes, been able to reach angel radio since the fall. They have no idea what's happened since. Not about Metatron, not about the Mark, Lucifer's attempt to claim heaven, or Amara, or the near-desecration of their father.

Dean shifts. He may not be able to understand all the words, but what he can—or the tone—is rousing wariness.

"It's been handled." Castiel says quickly, although the how escapes him. He still doesn't know what happened to Amara, whether or not she's been caged, killed, other, or if she's still a problem. So the words are a lie, unintended, but still one.

Open, gaping silence greets him.

"The Darkness." Armian repeats.

"You," and Ikoria says it very carefully, "housed the _Morning Star?_ You willingly allowed yourself to be combined with that...that abomination!?"

Castiel twitches. His argument is petulant, "We didn't have a choice. We _needed_ him. It was the only way. I wouldn't have if it wasn't..." He feels sick. Tired. Weary. He wants to stop. He can't handle this now. Someone has taken all the pieces of the last few months he hasn't wanted to address and shaken them across his mind. He's tripping across pools of unwanted memories. He wants to shut down. He doesn't want this. He wants to stop talking. For _them_ to stop talking.

 _It had seemed so nice_ , he thinks with longing. _They cared, for a moment, before they remembered who I am. What I do. I rebel, and I destroy, there is no happy medium. I am alone._

Ikoira scoffs with distaste. "You are _disgusting!"_

"I'm—I'm not—" he doesn't have a protest for it. He agrees.

"You house an abomination, and you cannot even take the fall for it. It's _so...like you._ The only reason we are here," Armian's voice is low, but cutting, rising the more he speaks, as if just beginning to realize he's furious. "Is because of _you._ We endured years of torture, brumation, and atrocity that you cannot even _imagine_ because _you_ were the gullible fool that got us cast from heaven. You broke the order when you rebelled. You gave us free will that we didn't want. Burned our wings off, you—you—" Armian's voice is choking on his rage before he finally bellows, " _You deserved to have yours taken!"_

Castiel draws back, nearly tumbling backwards inside of the tub when he flails. He starts to fall, but Dean's hand grabs him.

"Hey!" the hunter shouts, as Echo hisses a sharp "that's enough!" toward Armian.

Castiel shudders, his breath soft and pained.

Armian stands still for a moment, looking at a loss between fury and self deprecation. He turns on his heel and storms from the room with a flurry of movement. Ikoria follows after a moment, and then the other, until it's just him, Dean, and Echo inside of the small room, the other human—hunter?—in the doorway with his face drawn in concern.

He sits very still.

He breathes little.

He can't think. He can't process. The words have severed something deep inside of him, in a place where he didn't even realize he could still be hurt. The wound of his siblings' rejection and hatred has been one he's had to numb to survive but hearing those words, feeling their hatred…

_Can I fall any further?_

"—s, Cas, hey, hey," Dean's gripping his upper arms, squatted down in front of him, trying to catch his gaze, but Castiel keeps it skittering. "Breathe with me, buddy. You're okay."

He's not.

"I've gotcha."

He doesn't.

"Breathe."

No.

Castiel expels in a sputter because he has to, not because he wants to, and lifts his head towards Echo. Despair feels his essence when Echo is visibly trying to make himself at ease. _You're a liar,_ Castiel thinks with sudden fury, _you all are. We claimed to be family, but you cut me off at the first sign I was going to fall. You hated me. Maybe from the beginning, even if I deserved it._

And suddenly, he can't. The idea of dealing with his siblings leaves him hollow and dead inside. "Get out." His voice is cold and low English.

_You deserved to have them—_

Echo looks at him. "Castiel—"

_You deserved—_

"Get out," Castiel's voice is harder, and his tone acid when he adds, "Ezekiel. _Now."_

_You—_

Echo lingers for a moment more, but the edge of relief that crosses his features as he turns to leave only cements Castiel's rage and despair. The angel leaves the bathroom, striding out past the lanky hunter, and Castiel drops his head into his hands.

He doesn't cry, he doesn't scream, or rage, or panic.

He just breathes, Dean taking a slow seat next to him on the edge of the tub, silent, hands wringing, but there.

And somehow, that feels worse.

000o000

Sam doesn't know how far he walks, or even for how long. His mind is buzzing with faint traces of the blood, leaving him strangely euphoric and energetic. His limbs feel lighter, his head clearer, senses sharper. He can't feel the pain of his feet, the fogginess of dehydration and hunger, the faint rain pelting him from the now-overcast sky—nothing.

He's numb.

He's _high._

And he feels awful that he's relieved by this.

 _You make stupid decision when you're_ _inebriated_ _,_ a voice that sounds strangely like Dean warns him. Sam doesn't care. The horror is there, coiled like a snake keeping warm inside of his ribs, ready to bite at the slightest provoke, but company to his misery all the same.

Demon blood has always dulled his human senses, and this time isn't any different. His normally twenty-twenty vision is blurred in the distance, his hearing is crap, his skin numb, and he couldn't smell a decaying corpse three feet away if he tried. But his other senses are different.

Heighted, humming. He's always wondered, in the private recess of his mind, if this is what it would feel like if he was a proper psychic. He can hear his heartbeat roaring in his ears, and knows that if he was close enough to another human, he'd hear theirs as well. Sense their soul, taste the damnation if it was there. At the height of his addiction, he could tell how many hours someone had left before they were dragged down to the Pit.

But this sensation is wrong. Because Sam is experiencing the world as a demon.

And he is disgusting.

He knows he's been stumbling along the road for hours before he sees any proof of life beyond himself. The air is cold, but that, like the pain he's sure his feet are experiencing, he can't feel. He's considered doubling around to the McDonalds for the sixth time when he hears a horn honk behind him.

Sam startles, twisting around to face the car. He was facing the road, what direction traffic should be coming in, so why on earth is this person going the wrong way?

The car slows, coming to a gradual, stumbling stop beside him, a window rolling down. Wrong side of the car. Sam feels the blood drain from his face. This isn't the US. _London Chapterhouse_ whispers through his mind. London. London, _England._

_Crap._

"Mate?" The accent, as Sam expected, is a British. It's a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a loose sweatshirt and sporting a military cut and a freshly shaven face. "You alrigh' there?" The man's brow furrows, and Sam can't get out any words beyond a stumbling jumble of sound. "You in a hospital gown? Where'd you run off from? Nearest town ain't for miles..."

"I'm," Sam manages. His tongue feels heavy. Panic swirls in his stomach, dulled by the blood, and incapable of reaching his brain properly. _Demons don't have emotion,_ Ruby once said, claiming herself different, _sometimes they pretend, put on a solid act, but they're all dead inside._

Numbing, incapability for anything.

He's high.

He's not allowed to feel anything either.

"Phone." He blurts. "Can I use your phone, please? I need to…" what does he…? Dean. He has to call Dean. For Cas. And—

"American? What the…?" the man is hobbling out of his car now, and Sam stumbles back a step to avoid getting smacked by the door. The man is shorter than him, but not by much. He reaches out a hand to lay on Sam's shoulder as if to ground him, maybe offer some sort of reassurance, but Sam twitches back. _No,_ his body protests, as his mind screams _pain_ in warning.

"Whoa, just, uh, calm down," the man suggests, lifting up his hands in surrender. "Not gonna hurt ya'."

"Phone. Please, I have to call...my brother." Sam's words won't fit together. A puzzle piece he keeps pushing into the wrong spot. He doesn't understand.

His fumbling seems to register with the man.

"Yeah, sure." He says with skepticism, beginning to look as though he's stumbled across Sam holding a severed head, not wandering the road in a pair of loose sweatpants and something like a hospital gown for a shirt. He sniffs, nose wrinkling in distaste. "You high or something?"

_Yes._

_I'm high._

_High, high, high._

"No." Sam says, beginning to feel frustration tug weakly at the demon blood, "Just two minutes, please."

The man's face narrows, and he backs up a fraction towards his car, obviously intent on trying to leave. Sam knows he must give off the appearance of a homeless madman, but at this point, he couldn't care less. He _needs_ the phone. "Yeah, sorry. I'm not chuffed to leave you here, but I've gotta go..." the man says it like he's talking to something wild.

And in this moment, Sam _is._

He's not entirely sure if it's desperation or something else that makes him lash out, but the world seems to narrow, and he's grabbing a fistfull of the man's shirt before he can stop himself. His fingers hiss with pain of oversensitivity as they brush against the man's chest beneath his blue shirt, and though he makes a frantic sound, trying to wiggle free, Sam slams his fist against his jaw.

He's lost muscle mass and weight since the Men of Letters took him and Cas, and it's more luck than anything else when the man goes down, slamming his head against the side of the white car. Incapacitated, but not entirely unconscious.

Sam pants, forcing himself down beside the Brit to rifle through pockets until he finds the slim device. He pulls it from the man's jeans' back pocket, fumbling with the screen until it registers that he's touching it. Sam lifts the device up, reflecting the glass off of the meager light to squint at the fingerprints.

The man, thankfully, has a drawn pattern, not digits, and Sam awkwardly follows the echo of it smeared on top of the screen, managing to unlock the device after his third attempt. He battles through apps until he finds the phone, and starts to type in the numbers to Dean's main cell when he realizes that the device doesn't have a signal.

Sam swears, tossing the phone to the ground in resentment with a clatter, running a hand through his messy hair. He swears again, closing his eyes to hold back tears of sheer frustration. Every time he gets close it slips through his fingers. He can't help Cas, can't get to Dean, can't stop Lucifer. _I can't do this._

He doesn't have any way to contact anyone without a signal—

Wait. No. That's not true. So long as there's some network out here—and there has to be, because the Men of Letters were connected to _something—_ that means that Sam can call the police. He picks the phone off of the ground and winces slightly when he sees he cracked the screen from the force of his throw.

He glances up toward the British man in apology, but he's too busy staring forward listlessly, blood leaking down his face, for it to mean anything.

Sam pushes down _999_ and holds his breath, lifting the device up. _Please, please, please…_ It dials in his ear, and Sam almost tumbles to his knees with relief when he hears the operator on the other line ask "what's the nature of your emergency?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wrongly accused.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Self worth issues, low-key anxiety attack.

* * *

"Colonies or Canada?" is tagged onto the end of his order without preamble. Thoughts a thousand miles away, Dean almost staggers back into himself when his brain re-connects with his body at the voice. Ordering food is something that he doesn't need to think about that much anymore. Dangerous habit. Idiotic move.

Being unaware of his surroundings is how he'll get himself stabbed.

Or strung up.

Dean wets his lips, momentarily frazzled by the question. The young kid in front of him, brown hair, fresh face— _he looks like Sammy at that age—_ stares at him from the other side of the counter with the air of someone who's been trapped inside of a building for too long.

"Uh." Dean manages to get out.

Cas is in the car. He's gotta get back there. He's not talking. Dean wishes he ate food. He could order something. But molecules sound about as appealing as a gnawing at a piece of cardboard would be. "America." Dean says.

America. Right?

Right.

Dean's fist clenches, pushing against the granite surface. _Work faster,_ he pleads with back of house.

"Oh! I've got an aunt that moved there. Somewhere west, like Oklahoma. Do you want your receipt?" the kid asks.

Oklahoma isn't—

"Uh, no." Dean's fingers push against the cold surface. Grounding technique. _Stay present, stay present…_

The kid nods. "Okay. Your order will be out in a few minutes. You're welcome to take a seat while you wait."

The words don't process. Dean can't remember if he asked something. Or if they're done. He thinks so, and tentatively backs away from the countertop. He's not called back, and Dean turns to face the window as he waits for the order to be completed.

From the lights of the fast food store, he can see Cas in the car, in exactly the same position he left him: slightly hunched forward, arms crossed over his knees, eyes forward. He hasn't said a word about what the angels said, but Dean's not stupid. He gets the impression it wasn't anything positive. The expression on Cas's face…

It took a considerable amount of his self control not to stab the angels through their faces.

The angels.

_Ezekiel_ _._

Dean's teeth press together. He runs a hand through his messy air and things dizzyingly that he needs to get it trimmed. Sam normally cuts it. Has since he could hold a pair of scissors. It was cheaper, and their dad was nothing if not a skinflint.

Dean chews on the inside of his cheek.

Runs his hand through his hair again.

Tries to _do_ something with this energy he wants to screech into the wind for.

He needs to steal another car soon. The one that Cas is perched inside is both stolen and marked by the Men of Letters outside of their pseudo McDonalds. He doesn't know how long they have before the sadistic librarians come after them. There hasn't been a retaliation yet. Or a bargain for Sam.

It's been hours.

They should have done something by now.

Maybe they already have. They took Cas's wings. What are they going to take from his brother?

It takes back of house three calls before Dean recognizes the name they're calling for is him. He stumbles toward the counter and feels a little like he's in a daze as he smiles in thanks. He takes the bag and leaves the store, a small bell dinging behind him. Dean flinches at the sound.

He quickly crosses the distance of the parking lot, clambering into the driver's side of the blue vehicle. As he settles behind the steering wheel, pulling the door closed, Cas lifts his eyes up silently from the floor of the car, gaze intense, but oddly lifeless. Dean lifts up the warm bag, dropping it into the angel's lap with a curt, "hold that."

Cas's hands move automatically to grab the bag, but there's little life in the movement.

He doesn't feel much better.

He needs to sleep. Needs to eat. To figure out where Sam is, but keep Cas from falling back into the psycho's hands. Deal with Cas's back. Needs. Has to do something. He can't sit here. _Deal with it. Pull yourself together._

Dean's lips press together, but he doesn't comment on Cas's actions, instead forcing words out, "Garth better appreciate the lengths we went to get him a freakin' grilled cheese." His humor feels a little flat, but it's a habit now. If he can't make a joke, he can't talk about it, right? "This place's gotta be half an hour from the motel."

"Twenty-three, forty-two seconds." Cas corrects tonelessly.

Not enough time.

He should get them lost, even if creating a mental map of streets has become a engrained in him now. He can't _not_ have that map. It's always been needed, and it won't not be until he kicks the bucket.

 _Breathe, Winchester,_ he chides himself.

"You, uh, hungry?" Dean asks, for lack of anything else to say.

Cas gives him a look.

Dean's fingers lift off of the steering wheel slightly. "Okay." He intones breathily, "Just asking. With your back being crap, don't you need to get energy from somewhere to heal it? Unless you plan on weaning it from the cosmos."

He doesn't, actually, know where grace gets energy from. He'd have said heaven a few years ago, but after Metatron closed them off, he's not sure anymore.

Cas's eyes flick to the floor again. He leans his head back, closing off. Dean didn't really realize how open Cas had become until the angel had shuddered to a self-inflicted silence. It's like trying to talk to a wall.

"No." Cas says.

_Liar._

There's a beat, where Dean debates, head spinning, whether or not to call the seraph's bluff. He doesn't. "Y'know they call fries chips here?" Dean asks.

"Fascinating."

Cas tries, for weird human oddities like _that. What did they say to you?_

"Cas…" Dean sighs. The seraph doesn't say a word further, and Dean worries his lower lip between his teeth, resting a hand on the dash, feeling the hum of the still running engine. He didn't turn it off when he left, given that the less he can hotwire the ugly thing, the better. He grabs at the gearshift, intending to back out of his crappy parking job and pull them out into traffic, but Cas grabs the item and stops any movement.

Dean stops, vaguely annoyed, more concerned. "What?"

"We need to talk"— _no, really?—"_ about Sam."

Dean's hand stills over the gearshift, and he looks up toward the angel, slightly nauseous. "What about Sam?" His abdomen is aching from how tightly he's clenched, braced for bad news. He can imagine thousands of worst-case scenarios that don't involve death. Sam, after all, was _in_ the Men of Letters excuse of an infirmary. Cas's back was split open and he was just dumped into a cell.

Cas shifts so they're more eye-level, less slanted. "You asked who...who sanctioned the removal of my wings—" the words come out slightly choked, "—and it wasn't the Men of Letters."

What?

Then who—?

Dean's expression furrows. "What?"

Cas wets his lips, clenching his hands, "Lucifer is possessing one of their agents."

And—

They—

It—

_Crap._

Dean's entire body stiffens. His expression flattens out, but the flare of panic that washes through him is intense and paralyzing. He thinks he's going to be sick with it. He thinks about Sam after limbo, when he didn't speak for days. Lucifer is there. Sam is _there._

He swears under his breath, clenching the wheel hard enough that his fingers start to go numb. "Does—does Sam…?"

"Yes." Cas answers, lips turning down. "Sam is aware. He and Lucifer have spoken."

_Marvelous._

Dean swears again, resisting the urge to slam his fist against the wheel; but only barely. And mostly because in some part of his mind he's fully aware a brutal hit like that might disconnect the steering wheel from the dashboard.

Cas rubs at his forehead with two fingers, agitated.

Dean reprocesses that information. Hears what isn't being said.

Wait.

_Wait._

Dean turns to face him fully. "Your wings. That was _Lucifer's_ idea." A fraction of a head tip forward. His teeth press together, and he privately seethes. It's not enough that Lucifer tears Sam apart, piece by piece, for decades? He's gotta mutilate Cas, too?

He's going to feather the freakin psychopath and scoop out his organs with a fork. It's something he's wanted to do for a long time.

Dean buries his head in his hands, overwhelmed, underwhelmed, screaming silently to himself, moaning low in his throat. A controversy mixed inside perfect sense. He doesn't understand, and he understands perfectly. Truths on top of truths.

What, he wonders, are they going to do about Sam _now?_

It changes things when there's a freakin' archangel in the way. If they're going to raid the building again. It may not have stopped them from getting Cas, but in the long run, that doesn't really mean much. And why the heck is Lucifer even working with the blood-happy bookworms? He can get that their sadism may be mutually appreciated, but the Devil doesn't work _with_ anyone, he uses them. He's not exactly a teamplayer.

So why, _why_ is he there?

To torment Sam? How did he even know where to find them anyway? Crowley's resources aren't exactly limited and it still took them almost a month to find them. Heck, the angels were convinced Ezekiel was _dead._ At least, according to Cas. And somehow Lucifer finds and drops himself inside of the Men of Letters without a fuss?

Dean rubs at his eyes. "How...how did he even…? I thought Amara…"

He's _hoped_ Amara had dealt with him, given that the archangel didn't make an appearance afterwards. Not that Dean was explicitly looking for him. He had other things on his mind, but the angel has never been exactly _subtle._

"No." Cas says quietly, picking at a loose thread on the jacket, bag of food between his knees. "She just expelled him. I suspect...that he found us because of me."

_What?_

Dean's brow furrows. He clenches his hands, digging his nails into his palms. He looks up, maintaining eye contact with the seraph, even when Cas tries to pull his gaze away. "Cas, how is this _possibly_ your fault? Not everything that goes wrong has to do with you."

Cas huffs with clear self depreciation.

 _I can't do this right now,_ Dean thinks, almost frantic. He wants to scream. He doesn't know why his heart feels like it's twisting out of his chest, bloody, but it's not _stopping._ But he has to make it. Has to support. _Calm down. Present._

"Cas." Dean sighs.

"Dean, we can't…" Cas looks frustrated, and tries again, "After heaven fell, we have had little success in locating each other save by angel radio. Heaven...heaven kept better track of us. Only archangels are capable of sensing grace worldwide, and there weren't any left to help us."

Only Michael, and Lucifer, both of whom were safely tucked into the darkest pit of hell at the time.

"It's why we counted Ezekiel"—Dean's breath catches slightly, at the name, the reminder—"among the casualties. Anyone who couldn't contact angel radio was dead to us. Lucifer doesn't have that problem. Without my grace, I couldn't put up wards. It wouldn't be a great leap to assume that whatever mess you or Sam had tangled in, I would be there as well. If I'd still been in the Bunker, Lucifer wouldn't..."

Cas wraps his arms around his stomach, not even seeming to recognize the gesture as a very human one of self comfort.

Dean presses his lips together. _Oh._ He's quiet a moment, processing. Cas sinks lower into the seat. "Do you...do you think…?" Cas bites at his lower lip, and Dean forces his attention to pull itself back together. "Do you think that I…?"

"Cas, if you want to blame someone, blame the Men of Letters. It's not your fault." At Cas's open mouth, Dean says with more anger than he means to, "It's _not."_

Sam and Lucifer have spoken. Lucifer has been within ten feet of his sibling.

Sam was practically clinging to him when Lucifer was at the Bunker. The jumpiness, the wide-eyed hunted look, the slip-ups into Enochian...Sam is going to be a mess. Regardless of whether or not it's physical. But Sam's not going to _talk_ and Dean will be left to put his sibling's head back together over and over and over-

"I failed you," Cas says. "You told me to look out for your brother, and _I'm_ the one that got him and Lucifer together for the first time in years. I'm sorry. I didn't...I…" his mouth works awkwardly around the words so soft Dean almost doesn't hear them, "I _deserved_ to have my wings taken."

Sitting out in the pale lighting of a nearby streetlamp, with the stars hanging over them like a threat rather than a reassurance, Cas looks very pale and sick. Dean feels his jaw drop, incredulity washing through him. And that doesn't make sense. It _doesn't._ Because Cas was a mess after having his wings taken, and if he thought he deserved it, like it was some sort of penance, he wouldn't have been.

"What?! How the h—?!" he stops mid-word, something occurring to him. This wasn't _Cas._ "I'm gonna kill them." Dean whispers, suddenly deeply, achingly furious. It strangles the panic, helping to abate it for a moment. Fury is easier. It's _always_ easier. He can't find Sam, can't _fix_ Sam, but this—this he _can_ do something about. He's more than capable of stabbing angels. Why is it, _why,_ that Cas's siblings seem to take only sadistic pleasure in beating him down?

This. This is why Dean hates letting Cas talk to them.

This is why he always wants to serve as a buffer.

Cas looks miserable. His hands tighten at his sides. "They're only telling the truth."

"You—" Dean starts, readying himself to try and blow his way through this, but his phone takes that moment to start ringing loudly. He almost jumps at the unexpected sound, and he fumbles along his pockets until he finds it, and points a finger towards Cas. "We're not done."

Cas looks like Dean just told him to murder a small child.

Dean's teeth press together. He pulls the cell from his pocket, not recognizing the number, but the country calling code is _+44_ which puts it in the UK _. Maybe…_

Maybe…it's the Men of Letters, with information on Sam.

Dean feels sick. The wave of thrumming energy comes crashing back, wiggling it's way in front of any anger. He could be talking to Lucifer. This might... _breathe. Breathe, you idiot._ His stomach tightens a fraction in anticipation, and he takes a moment to brace himself before answering and putting it to his ear. "What do you want?" he demands, keeping his tone even, but still a warning.

There's a moment of silence, someone breathing out slowly on the other end. Maybe...relief?

" _Dean?"_

Dean's hand slips, and he smashes his elbow against the horn on accident. Cas jumps, eyes wide as he grabs at the dash to stop himself from tumbling forward. The bag of cooling food goes tumbling to the floor.

He can barely breathe. His chest is tightened round and round in knots. _A month. Thirty-something days._ He squeezes out some air, only so he can make the word audible. "Sammy?"

Cas's eyes widen, and for the first time in hours, he looks completely present. "Sam?" he repeats.

Dean swears in relief, closing his eyes, bracing his hand against the steering wheel; his eyes sting. His hands are shaking. "Sam?" he prods, suddenly desperate to hear his sibling's voice. "Where are you? Are you okay?"

There's a slight clinking, like metal against metal. Sam's voice is still soft, almost as if he's trying to draw little attention to himself. " _Look, I don't have a lot of time. But you gotta get to Cas, okay? We're in England, and the Men of Letters—they...did something to him. They're base is over some sort of McDonalds. You've gotta make sure he's—"_

"Hey, hey, hey!" Dean interrupts, "Cas is fine."

Sam pauses a moment, as if confused. He doesn't sound broken. " _What?"_

"He's three feet away from me. Kinda pissed, but otherwise he's okay." No, he's not, but Sam and wring details out of the angel himself. "Where are you?"

Sam is quiet for a moment, maybe processing, maybe trying to figure out what to say. " _Scotland Yard,_ " Sam finally admits. " _I, uh, got arrested for assault."_

Dean doesn't know whether or not to laugh. The urge to joke tips on his tongue, but what comes out is "you...you what? Are you okay?" in a weak tone.

" _I'm a little tired, and my feet are a mess, but yeah, I, uh, think so. Are you?"_

Cas slumps a little at the report.

"Fine." Dean answers curtly. Tension that's been built into his shoulders for weeks now is leaking from him. Scotland Yard. He can do Scotland Yard. Sam. _Sam._ He grabs the gearshift, adjusting his hold awkwardly on the phone, "I'll be there within an hour. Stay where you are."

A hesitation, " _Dean...I'm in London."_

"Yeah? Well, so am I, little brother." Dean says. He backs out of the parking space and tries to remember that everything is in reverse before he pulls onto the road. "We'll bail you out." Sam gives a slight noise of confirmation. Dean wets his lips, trying the words in his mind before speaking them outloud, chick-flicks can rot. "Sammy? I'm really glad you're okay."

He's not. He won't be. Dean knows that, Sam knows that, even Cas. But physically? So long as Sam doesn't have a severed arm he's gripping onto, then Dean can work with that. He hopes.

Sam's voice is soft, "Me too."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Panic attack.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Self worth issues, anxiety attack, mentioned drug use (in the form of demon blood.)

* * *

He hears the shouting before he sees them. Dean's tone is bordering on both furious and exasperated, twisting with an intermingled edge of _done._ Cas is quieter, but no less vibrant. The mix of accents and raising tones whispers down the hall like a shouted ghostly echo.

Sam shifts slightly, forcing himself to sit upright even as the world gives an effort to spin dizzyingly and topple him. His bare feet touch the cold metal of the holding cell, and it should bother him, but it doesn't. The world is edging with a red hue. He feels sick and powerful. He's not going to be able to cross a devil's trap. His toes curl.

He wants more.

He shouldn't. He _shouldn't._

But his throat is burning for it.

"—told you that we've been tracking him for months! We're glad you've finally got ahold of him, but we can take it from here." Dean is saying. Sam catches a glimpse of them as they storm down the hall toward the holding cells.

Neither Dean or Cas are dressed the part of whatever governmental agency they're pretending to be, but it doesn't seem to matter. Sam drinks in the hazy sight of them. Dean is dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt. Cas, beside him, is wearing a pair of sweatpants and Dean's black jacket over a white v-neck. The seraph looks exhausted, but is blessedly _alive._

There's no evidence of the amputation in his stance save a wild look in his eyes.

No screaming.

No pleading.

"There's paperwork, and protocols to—" one of the officers is trying to explain.

"Work it out with the head of our office, we're on a timetable! He's got dozens of people after 'im, and we've got to get him back to the States and under protective custody before they take him out." Dean says flippantly. His step stutters a little when Sam catches his gaze, but not enough that anyone but Cas seems to notice.

"But—"

Cas grabs the front of the officer's shirt, yanking him forward. There's three others that have followed like an entourage, pausing to look at each other awkwardly, hands on their weapons. "We don't have time to deal with this. You can take it up with D.C. if it bothers you so much."

The officer's mouth thins, but he doesn't say anything more.

Cas releases him, and then turns to face the holding cell. Sam's fellow inmates have shifted, looking both intrigued and afraid. Dean and Cas pull out badges, flipping them in almost tandem. FBI. Dean's eyes track him, "Sam Wesson? I'm Agent Page, this is Agent Jones, we're here to take you into protective custody."

Sam's brain takes a moment to process the lie. "We, uh, thank God." He fumbles out. He thinks somewhere, he's relieved. At the surface he's beginning to panic. They're going to _know._ Cas's eyes are already narrowed. He can sense it. Maybe he can smell it. They'll know what's _in_ him. He hurts. His blood is boiling. Dean's heart is pulsing, but Cas's is still inside his chest. He staggers to his feet and nearly topples over.

He sees both Dean and Cas take a half step forward, but stop at the realization they're impeded by the bars.

"I've been waiting for you," Sam says. He's pretty sure that the police think he's high. ( _He is, he is, he is—)_ The story he told them about being kidnapped by drug traffickers to be a mule was taken with an air of doubt. He probably could have given it more credit if he hadn't knocked the man unconscious. "I'm glad you're here."

"So are we." Cas says after a moment.

Dean turns to the DI, hand raised expectantly. The man's nostrils flare a little beneath a hawk-like nose, but he steps forward to unlock the holding cell without a word of protest. Dean quickly shoves past him and grabs hold of Sam's arm, swinging it across his shoulders. His skin is warm. Sam's crawls beneath the contact.

His brother smells like sweat, motor oil, and a car he doesn't recognize.

"Alright, let's go." Dean says, hauling him forward. Sam stumbles over his feet, but manages to catch himself. His hands ache. The paramedics who arrived on the scene did a quick patch job, but nothing long term. Everything in his body feels wrong, twisted out of proportion. He closes his eyes, and tries to breathe in relief. Tries to breathe in _something._

 _Demons don't feel,_ Ruby's ghostly voice reminds him. _He's not allowed yet._

Cas steps up beside them, and he and Dean continue spinning their tales of crap until they're exiting the building. Although the police seem to be heavily against the FBI's involvement, there's not much they can do. Dean and Cas don't give them time.

Sam's vision swims in and out.

The halls blur, then the world; bright with early dawn. Dean's hands tighten around his shoulder, before they're stopping in front of a small blue car that's probably older than the Impala. Dean is helping him into the back, a hand strays through his messy hair; his brother pulls back. Sam doesn't mourn the loss, even if he thinks he wants the contact. Somewhere. He has to. He thinks his brother says something. Too exhausted to figure out what it was, he just nods.

Dean clambers into the front and leans down under the dash, pulling out wires to spark the vehicle to life. Cas settles beside him in the back, leg outstretched awkwardly forward. Accommodating for the bullet wound, still. Sam slumps against the seat.

This doesn't feel real.

Maybe it isn't.

He presses his thumb against his left hand's palm. He forgot about the poorly bandaged cuts. The pad of his finger jams into an open wound and Sam jackknives, less from pain, more from surprise at how _raw_ it is; nearly ramming his head against the ceiling of the car. Cas grabs his shoulder. Dean twists around, wires forgotten. "Sammy?"

His teeth set. He tries not to shudder. His eyes squeeze shut.

He's safe.

He is.

He's sure.

He's almost sure.

Almost.

"I'm okay," Sam whispers. Cas's hand tightens a fraction on his shoulder. Sam wishes he wouldn't. He doesn't want the contact. "I'm okay. We can go." He tries for an encouraging smile, but it strains his face to hold it. Neither his brother or the angel seem reassured. "It's nothing that can't wait."

Dean and Cas share a wordless glance, eyes squinted, lips thinning, micro expressions bouncing between the two. Sam's too exhausted to follow it.

Dean leans back under the dash and starts the car.

Sam closes his eyes and exhales very softly.

The drive is taken in silence. Cas a reassuring presence beside him, and Dean spends more time looking in the rear view mirror than he does on the road. He doesn't know how long they drive before they pull into an empty church parking lot. Dean stops the car, parked awkwardly in front of the doors to the dark church house, then clambers out of the front and opens the door beside Sam.

For a long moment, they just look at each other. Dean's hair is a little longer than he normally wears it. His eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion, smudges beneath them attesting to his lack of sleep. His lips are thinned tightly, hands clenched around the edge of the metal of the door like he can bend it. His brother hesitates, then leans forward a little.

Sam's stomach drops with a cold, wet smack against the ground.

_No._

_Don't._

_Don't—_

He lifts up his hand to catch his brother's wrist before his brother can pull him into an embrace. His tongue feels hot. "No. Please. No, I…" Sam closes away, not wanting to face the hurt on his sibling's face. Cas's hand on his shoulder slides back slowly, as if realizing the problem. His stomach hurts. His head is spinning.

This was supposed to be _good._ He waited, day after day, week after week, for this moment. When his family would be back together and he would be _safe._ They all would be. _(Dean would be alive, Cas would be alive.)_ And they'd be _fine._ He longed for the normalcy he sometimes hates. And now that he's here, now that he's landed inside of his fantasy...he can't stand it. It's like a suffocating blanket.

What is _wrong_ with him?

 _Isn't it obvious?_ a snide voice demands, laughing. _You_ are _the boy with the demon blood._

Dean's hand, when it touches his wrist, is feather light in it's grip. Sam could break it by shifting, but it doesn't matter. He flinches like his brother has just grabbed and squeezed a nerve. "What happened to your hands?" Dean asks quietly. There's no anger in his voice. Not even annoyance.

Sam blinks his eyes open, pushing his lips out. Cas is leaning forward now, not touching, but almost. Sam feels pinned. He wants to run. _You were supposed to want this. Why can't you want this?_ "I, uh," Sam intones. He doesn't know what to say. And even if he did say anything, he doesn't know what his brother's reaction would be, nor Cas's.

And that—that terrifies him.

Unknowns spinning, holding fate. Holding _safety._

Cas takes his other hand with slow movements. Sam follows with his eyes. The seraph's eyebrows pinch as he slowly unwinds the bandage to look at the red wound. It stopped bleeding a while ago, but the sight is swollen with infection. It's disgusting. And familiar. "Why the heck didn't they take you to the hospital?" Dean demands, incredulous.

Sam shrugs. He didn't ask. The paramedics said he should get it looked at in a few days, but hadn't seemed overly concerned once he confirmed he could feel every finger.

"These are starting to get infected." His brother adds a moment later, releasing his hand. Sam tucks it up close to his stomach, ignoring the faint twinge of discomfort that washes through him at the movement.

"Sam," Cas's voice is soft, "with your permission, I can…"

He forces out a breath when it gets caught in his stomach. Cas's grace isn't the same as Lucifer. He knows that intellectually. And that doesn't mean a thing. But it's either suffer for a moment, or risk the loss of fingers. "Yeah." Sam grits out.

Cas's hand reaches out. Carefully, tentatively, he presses two fingers against Sam's forehead.

The wash of _other_ swims through him. Too hot, too cold, sharp and soothing all at once. It's wrong, and Sam wants it _out._ The pinch of skin knitting together, the burn as his body is forced to heal faster, and the sudden exhaustion as it pulls on reserves of energy he doesn't have causes him to slump forward.

Dean's hands, warm, _safe,_ press against his collarbones, taking most of his weight. Sam pulls on abdominal muscles to keep himself from tumbling out of the car entirely. Cas grabs at him. The contact makes him clench, but he's going to collapse if it isn't there. _It's okay._

_Okay, okay, okay._

( _It's not, it's not, it's not—)_

He feels his expression pinch, and something like a ragged hiss escapes from him. Dean's hands settle him back against the seat, murmuring words of comfort Sam can hardly put together. "...okay, Sammy. We've gotcha, just breathe...it's okay...safe…"

Safe.

_Ha._

_Nowhere is safe. He's still out there._

Sam curls away from their hands, leaning forward, folding his arms across his knees and letting his head fall against his arms. He squeezes his eyes shut. He breathes. No one says a word. No one touches him.

Dean takes a seat on the floor of the car next to Sam's legs, and rests his boots on the asphalt.

The silence is stifling.

The car remains idle. The cool air of the morning begins to bite against his skin, and when his body begins to shudder minutely Dean says quietly, "I've got some stuff in the back if you want to change. I don't have anything of yours, but it should fit. It would be warmer than, uh, this."

Warmth. _Warmth._ He swallows thickly, his throat is dry. It's oddly wet, too. Blood. ( _I've got demon blood in me.)_ It feels strange. He wasn't functional, but now he's barely here. He's floating. He's got to ground himself somehow. But grounding would mean thinking, and thinking would mean remembering and that would entail Lucifer—

No.

"I'm." Sam lifts up his head a fraction, and he palms his face then gripping the bridge of his nose between steepled fingers. His thoughts are jumping. Bile lingers in the back of his throat. He can't remember the last time that he ate food; the paramedics gave him a waterbottle. The dehydration and malnutrition are probably only adding to his headache.

"Sammy?"

Dean asked a question.

He needs to answer before his brother's patience gives out.

Sam shakes his head. He breathes out. Tries to feel comfort in the fact that he's here and drowns in the guilt when he doesn't. "Okay." Sam says. The words are far away. They sound like they were spoken by someone else.

Dean gets up, obviously itching for something to do. He disappears from Sam's line of sight, moving for the trunk. A light rain has started to fall softly against the roof of the car.

"Sam," Cas whispers his name gently. Sam feels fragile. He wants to strangle something, knowing that he needs them to do this: treat him like something breakable. He's going to shatter into thousands of pieces if they don't. Tone airing on the edge of caution Cas asks, "How much did you take?"

Sam flinches.

He knows. Of course he knows. He can smell a bladder infection, it's not a question that he can smell what's wrong with him, tainted inside of his veins and pushing around him. Sluggish. Damning. His breath tangles around his heart, straining it. _No, no, no—_

"I didn't—" Sam tries. "It wasn't—"

_It wasn't my choice. It wasn't my decision. It's never my decision!_

"I didn't want—"

_No, no, no—_

"Sam. _Sam!_ I wasn't—that's not—" Cas sounds flustered and frustrated. "That isn't what I meant. You—"

"I don't know how much is _in_ me. He made me take it!" Explodes out of him before he can stop it. "It wasn't my choice!" Cas's expression shudders at the raised tone, and Sam's teeth grit together. He looks away. _Nice going, Winchester. Shout. That always fixes everything._

"I wasn't implying that it _was,"_ Cas's voice is low.

"Why else did you want to _know!?"_ They only ask to condemn him. To shove him into the panic room and then walk away while his body starts to give out.

Cas looks like Sam hit him, eyes wide and expression as earnest as it is pained. As if the answer should be obvious, but it isn't. Not to him.

"Hey!" Dean is suddenly in the doorway, looking between the two of them with a pair of clothing in hand, frustration evident. "What are you two doing!?"

And Sam—Sam just—he. He's not. It.

_Dean is going to be so disappointed. Almost two centuries sober._

_How much did you take?_

He staggers out of the car, landing hard on his hands and knees, ramming into the wet asphalt with force that jolts through his bones. He throws up. The bile burns as it passes up through his throat, but the only thing that comes up is blood. Thick, rolling waves of it. The smell is putrid.

Dean curses darkly, dropping beside him on the ground, a hand on his back. Sam shudders beneath the contact. Another hand is suddenly splayed against his stomach, abdomen, pushing. Looking for the feeling of internal injuries. It's not what's wrong. It's not what's wrong. _It's not what's wrong._ Sam coughs, sputtering, and realizes belatedly that he's sobbing. His hands are soaked with pink-red.

"Cas!" Dean exclaims. He sounds panicked. His hands are moving in a frantic staccato against his back. It's warm.

"Dean," he gasps, reaching out. His brother takes his hand without a word. The blood taints his clean, unmarred skin. Sam coughs, spitting onto the road. His vision is blurred, and his skull feels ready to split open. "It's _in_ me."

"What? Sam?" Dean's grip tightens until the tips of Sam's fingers feel like they're about to go numb. Sam heaves again, throat burning as blood is pushed out. _I can't, I can't, I can't—_ "Cas?"

"It's in me," he gasps, "oh, it's in me. It's in me. _It's in me."_

"There's…" Cas sounds lost. "He has consumed demon blood. Not by his choice."

Sam's head ducks with shame. _Almost two centuries sober, Sammy—_ "I didn't want…" Sam tries to explain. "I tried…" his mouth is dry. They don't want his excuses, they want his promise that he won't do it again. He was clean. He was _clean._ What the Cage didn't purge from him, the Trials did. He was—he _was—_

Hands grip either side of his face, and it's forcefully raised. Sam chokes on his tears, on blood, and blinks eyes open to blurrily stare at his sibling. Cas is standing off to his right, hands clenched and mouth set grimly, Dean's expression is—

Pained sympathy.

"Sammy. Sam. Look at me. _Look at me."_ Dean's voice is hard. Anger. But even though part of him shies from it, it's not for _him._ "You did nothing wrong. We're not angry. You're okay. We're gonna figure this out, alright? You're okay. You're safe. We don't care, okay? You're fine, breathe, Sammy."

He's still infected. He can't scrub this out. He can't—

They don't care. They didn't shun him. They didn't— _they don't care._ And that— _that—_

Relief washes through him, relaxing tense muscles.

Sam lets himself fall forward, chin smashing against Dean's shoulder. His brother pulls his weight up without complaint, wrapping his arms around Sam's back and gripping with taut strength. Sam reaches weakly for Cas, and the seraph's weight rocks a little before he awkwardly kneels down beside them and is pulled inside of the embrace.

Sam buries his head inside of Dean's shoulder and breathes out slowly, shakily. Cas's hand is steady against his back, over his pounding heart.

 _It's over,_ Sam realizes, sick to his stomach. The battle is fought. They escaped the Men of Letters. Lucifer—

It was a pyrrhic victory, but it's over.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Grief


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay! Thanks so much for your support, loves! I hope you enjoy. :)
> 
> Warnings: Some self-hatred issues, mentions of withdrawl (from demon blood.)

* * *

_You housed the Morning Star?_

From his position on the wet sidewalk, Castiel watches the Winchesters, fingers wrapped together and knuckles pushed against his mouth, silent. He can see it. Pulsing against Sam's soul, a darkened stain on top of the scarring, like a handprint. He thinks about the white scar that mars Dean's left shoulder, and looks down at himself, wondering.

_You willingly allowed yourself to be combined with that abomination?_

Beneath the flimsy human clothing, beneath this vessel of flesh and blood, what do they _see?_ On him; his true form. Does he look like Sam, dotted with the scars of this violent creature? ...Is he _tainted?_ And he shouldn't care; not now, not after they just got Sam back, not after Sam can barely speak, not after Sam is struggling to stand and Dean is helping him change clothing, not after _this._

But pressed against the Winchesters, the heat of their conjoined souls gently embracing him, Castiel had felt _it._ The cold, wracking chill of Lucifer, and he had hesitated. Because that was _recent._

 _What do they see, when they look at me?_ Can they feel Lucifer when they touch him, as Castiel did when he touched Sam? The thought makes him nauseated. The destruction that Lucifer cast upon souls was horrific, how he warped and killed those beautiful beams of light until they were darkened with pain and conflict. Demons.

He doesn't have a soul. What lingering darkness did his brothers and sister see?

He rubs his thumb-knuckles against his lips, agitated. Disgusted. He should be focused on Sam now. But instead he's spinning endlessly, wondering on himself. What does that say about him, that Sam's immediate thought after calling Dean was to make sure Dean went after _Castiel_ and Castiel sees him and thinks about if he's as tarnished?

_I am disgusting._

Castiel sighs, shifting his arms to wrap around his chest. Dean's jacket bunches around him, the zipper digging uncomfortably into his forearms. The fabric slides along his back and his teeth grit together. He feels the absence.

Sam steps out from around the car, dressed in clothing that Castiel suspects would have been too small on him had he not lost so much muscle mass in the month of their captivity. Sam looks like a sick, starving hospice patient, rather than a hunter. His pale skin stands out starkly from the dark colors of Dean's T-shirt, jeans a little too short. Sam doesn't seem to care. Hidden in the swathes of clothing, he looks almost...fragile.

Castiel rubs absently at his leg. He knows he should get up, but finds he lacks the energy.

Sam tucks his trembling hands under his folded arms, and clambers back inside of the somewhat warm car without a word. The light rain that's begun to fall is soaking through Castiel's clothing. The damp, sodden fabric may have annoyed him before this. He can't say for certain. Now it's just there.

Dean pulls the trunk closed and lingers there for a moment, as if trying to regain his composure. Agitation swirls through Castiel at the noise. Breathing out slowly, Dean crosses the distance between himself and Castiel, squatting down in front of him. The church house looms behind them both, an oppressive shadow casting judgement.

"What's going on?" Dean asks quietly.

Castiel's hands fidget, pulling on the sleeves of the borrowed jacket. His frown deepens. _You housed the Morning Star?_ "Has Sam stopped vomiting?" He diverts. The last thing he wants to do is talk about this. Dean may have promised their conversation wasn't concluded, but Castiel knows that it will be some time before he tries to pull information, given Sam's presence.

"Think for the moment, yeah," Dean says, and something twitches on his face. He scrubs a hand over his face, fingers running across stubble. He looks tired. He probably is. Castiel hasn't exactly made the last few days easy for him.

Castiel feels some guilt over how he's disappointed about this. Sam feeling better is a good thing. Sam no longer emptying out blood onto the road is better. He knows this. He _feels_ this. But he doesn't want to go back to the motel.

_You deserved to have yours taken._

He waited outside in the car while Dean ran inside to grab an extra pair of clothing and grapple to find FBI badges. He refused to be within the enclosed space. He'd choke on the feeling of his sibling's grace, and their odium. Maybe he is a coward. It would hardly be the worst ailment he's been tasked with.

"Good," Castiel says, even though he doesn't really mean it. "I assume we're going to return to the motel now?"

Dean's head cants a fraction. There are times Castiel forgets he's far more perceptive than he claims to be. _I can't do this now,_ he thinks, feeling the edge of panic rouse in him because _you deserved to have yours taken._ The skin along his back prickles; stretching, straining.

Bloody.

Painful.

_Gone._

"That was the general plan. I don't know if it's the greatest idea for us to remain out here in the open after breaking Sammy out of prison." Dean glances back at the car. Castiel can see Sam leaning against the window of the far door of the backseat. Dean's fingers rub against his knuckles, and Castiel finds himself mimicking the action without thinking. "I'm not sure how far the Men of Letters' reach is."

Oh. Right. Castiel feels his shoulders tighten a fraction. Even if he wanted to, he cannot hide from them forever. Castiel closes his eyes, trying to draw together strength. _Sam needs you to focus,_ he chides himself, _stop wallowing. Your troubles are not important here. It's not as though you haven't talked with them before._

He breathes in the petrichor, and sees Dean is staring at him unhappily. Castiel doesn't bother to try to pretend. No fake smiles, no false reassurances. This, it seems, wasn't the right choice, because Dean asks, "Cas, what—?"

Castiel gets to his feet. "We need to go." He says tonelessly.

Dean rises up. He opens his mouth to say something, but Castiel strides away from him toward the car. His chest aches, realizing how much he longs for his wings in that moment, and the ability to take himself anywhere but here. He thinks Dean makes a soft, throaty noise of frustration behind him, but he doesn't care.

_You deserved—_

Castiel climbs into the passenger's side of the front. It feels strange, sitting here, having been in the position Sam is now for so many years. He feels as though he's broken some strange order of the universe. It wouldn't, he supposes with bitterness, be the first time.

Sam glances at him, eyes shadowed, pallor white. He looks worse than the last time Castiel saw him. Before... _before._

They share a long look, but Castiel doesn't say a word. Neither does Sam. Castiel doesn't know how to feel about this. The last weeks, they've only had each other, and even that was brief glimpses. Castiel watched Sam go from bad to worse and worse to egregious. He feels relief, looking at Sam, he knows that. Knowing that Sam is safe, that he is once again underneath Castiel's shoddy protection feels him with a sense of calm he can't explain. It's just...it's tangled up in the mess of everything else.

Sam's gaze is almost sorrowful in it's regret. His eyes shift toward Castiel's back. The absence, the ache, the _loss_ whispers through him.

Castiel's shoulders strain beneath the scrutiny. _Stop looking,_ he wants to shout, _all of you stop looking at it!_ "Stop," Castiel says between teeth. He feels his stomach tighten with regret as Sam's gaze flicks away immediately.

"Sorry," he whispers.

 _Don't be,_ Castiel doesn't say, but should, _you're not at fault here._

He wasn't there, Castiel realizes. He wasn't there to see what happened, but his eyes slide to the wounds like he could reach out and trace them. How did he know? Lucifer couldn't have bragged in such detail, could he?

Dean climbs into the car, and the moment is broken. He's unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Dean pulls the door shut, and Sam twitches. The motor runs with a faint clicking sound, and Castiel reaches out a hand to touch the dashboard. The faint vibrations offer a semblance of comfort.

"Sammy, you look wiped. You should try and get some sleep. We're about an hour out from the motel." Dean says, hands lingering on the steering wheel, but making little movement to direct them anywhere.

Sam looks at him. "I…"

Dean twists around and rests a hand on Sam's knee. The contact seems to both reassure and agitate him. "It's okay. You're safe, I promise."

He pulls his gaze away from Dean's, but says nothing. The implications of his silence are clear.

Sam is...Castiel closes his eyes, feeling sickened and furious. Sam is _afraid._ And why shouldn't he be? Lucifer is out there, the Men of Letters are out there. Safety is an illusion that they tell themselves for comfort. Lucifer did this to him. When, Castiel wonders darkly, will his brother stop haunting the hunter? When will enough be _enough?_

_Why do you reek of Lucifer's grace? He taints you._

Castiel's eyes flick towards Dean's face, and he sees the Winchester's jaw tightening. He pulls his hand back, and grips the steering wheel like he's wringing a neck. No one has anything to say to that. Sam does not sleep. Castiel doesn't talk. Dean turns up the volume to a local rock station and the three of them pretend to be deafened by the music.

000o000

The dusty brick motel stands on its last legs of life, old, single story, and shingles missing off of the black roof. It's beside a petrol station. Castiel feels himself bunching at the sight of the door, and his apprehension only grows worse when Dean pulls into the parking space in front of seven. He remembers a time that seeing his siblings was once a reassurance.

Now it is a condemnation.

Dean leans down underneath the dashboard and pulls apart the hotwiring job. The car hisses angrily as it dies, the rumbling ambience taken sharply. Dean breathes out, then pulls himself upright. He looks taut and frazzled. _And you are not helping,_ a voice sneers in the back of his head, _you promised to help, but you are forcing him to shoulder the role of caretaker alone._

Sam's head rolls toward them from where it's been leaning against the window for the better part of the drive. Dean makes no move to get out of the car, which only causes Castiel's anxiety to spur onward. He just wants to get this over with.

"We're, uh, not alone." Dean says, "Garth's here."

Sam's eyebrows raise, the fingers rubbing against his forehead ceasing in the action for a moment. " _Garth?_ "

"Yeah. We, um, ran into each other in the States," Dean's gaze slips a fraction, mind somewhere else for a moment. He shakes himself from it, but Castiel thinks about the suspension wounds on his wrists. He never asked. Or Dean never answered. He can't remember clearly, and it quietly horrifies him. These days are a blur, and angels aren't supposed to have that.

"He insisted on coming along." Dean finishes.

"To _London?_ What about Bess?" Sam asks.

"I don't know." Dean sounds a fraction of exasperated. "I don't think she was advertently protesting it. I'm not even sure if Garth's called her to be honest." The hunter releases his lower lip, "We also picked up some angels."

Castiel barely represses a flinch. _He taints you._

Sam's expression closes off, like he's simply flipping on a switch. Emotions _off/on._ Out Sam's sight, Dean's hands clench, "They're waiting to heal up before they head out. We, uh, can get a different room if neither of you want to deal with it. I'm sure Garth would be happy to babysit by himself."

 _Please,_ Castiel thinks wordlessly. Maybe at a different motel, so he can't sense their grace. Even from here, feet away from the door, he can feel it twisting against him. Sam shakes his head a little. His hand has slid down to cover his mouth. His skin has lost any remaining color it had.

Dean's eyes roll up a fraction, hands clenched on his lap, knuckles white. _Strained_ , Castiel thinks about him again. "Don't answer too quickly, you two; you'll strain something."

Frustration pulses through him. Castiel's head tips, "What do you want me to _say_ , Dean?"

"I don't know, but something would be nice." Dean says. From the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Sam's eyes close tightly at the sound of his voice, looking a mix between pained and nauseated. Withdrawal. From the demon blood. Castiel shakes his head a fraction, feeling wrongly irritated at Dean. _Calm down,_ he demands of himself, _your agitation is helping no one._

Dean opens his mouth, eyes squinted, then closes it slowly. He releases the steering wheel, and sighs from what sounds like the bottom of his lungs up. They're a ticking time bomb. One of them is going to give, and it won't be pretty. "Let's just get inside. You guys have protests, state them now."

Neither he or Sam list any.

Castiel fumbles with the door handle for a moment, then stumbles out into the somewhat-fresh air. He closes the door with carefulness that belies his mood, and watches as Sam scrambles out of the back door. He staggers a step, grabbing at the door like he needs it for support. His eyes pinch closed for a moment, and he releases a hitching breath. Castiel feels himself give. His shoulders drop, and he takes a step toward the younger Winchester, wordlessly offering support.

Sam's lips press together, but he wraps an arm over Castiel's shoulders and leans against him. The height difference between them makes it awkward, and Castiel clenches up at the contact and proximity, but he forces himself to relax. It's just Sam. Sam wouldn't hurt him. What remains of his wings ( _nothing)_ is safely tucked into the ether, beyond human contact.

Sam's breathing is slightly off. He reeks of demon blood, enough that Castiel tries not to gag at their proximity. As much as he wants to support, he can feel his body trying to put as much distance as possible between them. The spawn of corruption is inside of Sam, and Castiel, for whatever little is angelic about him anymore, can't stand it.

Dean appears on Sam's other side, and between the two of them, they manage to get the younger hunter to the motel door. Sam's attempting to support himself, but whatever strength he possessed in his eariler panic seems to have drained him completely. Castiel wishes with sudden fierceness that he could remove the vile substance with a touch of his fingers.

But he never has been able to, and he never will.

Dean fumbles with the keys, jamming it against the lock several times before he manages to insert it, and then twists the knob and opens the door. It's an awkward manhandling to get them all into the room, but they manage.

Garth is pacing along the length of the small table as they enter, and immediately steps forward to try and offer assistance. Castiel's siblings are still in much the same position they left them: sitting on the couch, one on the mattress of the two beds, and sitting on the floor beside the couch. All of them jerk a little at the sight, and Castiel sees several faces squint up in disgust.

If they say anything, Castiel realizes, if they make one statement about Sam being unholy or the antichrist, it will shatter him.

"What on our father's name...?" Ezekiel murmurs, standing up from the bed. Castiel and Dean haul Sam toward the far one, and deposit him as carefully as they can onto the mattress. Sam curls on his side almost instantly, around his stomach, closing his raw eyelids and clamping his fingers around his waist. Compared to the blue spread, Sam looks almost translucent.

Dean shares an uneasy look with him, and rests a hand on Sam's hair. Sam hisses between his teeth, but seems to take a small modicum of comfort from the contact. Castiel's hands fumble for something to do.

Garth whispers a curse. "He don't look so hot."

"Yeah, about that. We, uh, should probably talk." Dean says in answer to that. Castiel glances at the other hunter. For all the time that the Winchesters have known Garth, for all that they have trusted him in, Castiel wonders how much of their history he knows.

They're already seeing the effect of withdrawals. This will last for days before Sam will be back on his feet. If Garth plans to stay, he has to know.

"Sam Winchester," Ikoria says in Enochian from the couch, her head tipping as she tries to catch a better glance at him. "The boy with the demon blood. I can smell it in him from here. Castiel, how do you _stand_ that?"

Castiel blocks her view line. He's not facing Sam anymore. Also in Enochian, he snaps, "If you're going to continue to demean him, you can seek refuge elsewhere."

Ikoria's eyebrows raise slightly. "You _defend_ the abomination?"

"I am the Winchesters' guardian." Castiel says simply, and thinks miserably, _though I fail more often than I succeed in this department._ Ikoria glances at Armian, seated beside her on the couch. A wordless, confused conversation seems to pass between them in that look. "And his name is Sam."

"Cas," Sam's voice is soft. It's the first words he's spoken since they got into the car. Castiel turns to face him. Sam is propped up on an elbow, face beginning to sheen with sweat, Dean hovering beside him. "It's okay. It's...it's nothing I haven't heard before."

"You shouldn't have to." Castiel says without thinking. Sam's lips quirk, like he's trying to smile, but fails. It's barely more than a grimace. A shudder whispers through him, and he drops back onto the bed, hand tightening over his stomach.

Castiel takes a seat on the end of the mattress beside Sam's feet. He looks at Dean for a moment, the Winchester's body tired and gaze flicking between resignation and fear. Castiel prepares himself to take watch, even as much as his battered mind wants to close off and collapse again. It's easier not to be aware, to not have to face what's been done.

But he doesn't get that choice. Not now.

Castiel's lips downturn, and he braces himself for the long night ahead.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Alt. 8: Adverse Reactions


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, been a hot minute. I was attempting to get all the prompts done before posting again, and that took a little bit. Your support has been deeply, deeply treasured. Thank you.
> 
> Warnings: Withdrawal, self hatred.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful AngelFishOfTheLord

* * *

For a while, it's just discomfort and extreme thirst. Sam can sleep through it. It's not comfortable, but if he tucks his head far enough into the hard pillow smelling faintly of cleaning supplies and lets it push against his skull, the headache seems to slip from migraine status to something just above bearable. He vomits only once, and any liquid Dean tries to shove down his throat feels like it's encased in thorns.

He can't keep down medicine despite his best efforts. From past experience, he knows that anything stronger than over-the-counter medication will react badly with demon blood. There's not much else to do beyond lay down and plead to be knocked unconscious.

Cas lingers in the background, present, but talking little and mostly watching. If Sam had to make an assumption, he'd say that the seraph was attempting to strategically place himself between Sam and the angels at any given time. Which. Sam doesn't understand. Maybe he missed something. He hasn't been running on all cylinders.

He doesn't care. And rolls over, clamping his hands over his ears as the sound of breathing stabs into his head with force.

It's somewhere after hour seven that Sam starts hearing the sound of Dean's heartbeat and wants to reach into his chest and claw it out. Garth doesn't have one because he's legally dead. Angel vessels sound off rhythm. But Dean is close. So close. Sitting on the end of the bed with a MacBook he doesn't recognize, always within reaching distance.

( _And isn't it ironic? That Sam would have sold his soul for this in the panic room, but now he'd given anything for Dean to walk away.)_

Sam clenches his hands into fists and tucks them under himself. "What...where's the laptop?" Sam mutters, more for distraction than any actual curiosity. Dean twitches, lips pressing together.

"Uh, it's, um. In pieces, in the back of Baby." He says.

Pieces...that's...he can't. Thinking hurts. Sam stares at him for a moment, not sure he understands. Then realizes he doesn't care. He just wants the pain to stop. He shudders, hissing between his teeth and Dean reaches out and squeezes his forearm. Sam passes out from pain at the contact.

Hour ten is when the throbbing, constant ache starts.

And hour eleven is when he starts to see things.

He loses time after that.

Shapes blur in and out. Voices talk. Emptiness swallows him. He escapes into the void only to be dragged back when someone contacts his skin. He hears more voices. Things scream at him. His body shakes, his blood boils. Everything _hurts._

Black. Rough. Soft. Pain. _Nothingness._ Everything. Nothing again.

_We should see if demon blood serves as a catalyst to make him heal faster._

A rough hand comes up to rest on his forehead, and Sam twitches, wanting to draw back, but lacking any fight. His skin feels like it's slowly being peeled back from his muscles. Shredded layer of skin by shredded layer of skin. Twisted pain curls around his spine, prodding at his nervous system with a hot iron rod with unrepentant glee.

Sam breathes in through his nose. Pained gasps escape through his teeth. His hair is soaked with sweat. His muscles bunched up around him and limbs askew across his body. The touch of blankets hurts. The feeling of clothing scraping against his skin makes him want to tear it off with his teeth. At some point he lost his shoes because they were bothering him, but a _when_ escapes him. Time is jumbled, stretching on for decades and living hours in seconds. (Always, always, because he doesn't know how to keep track of it anymore.) But exhaustion is too much.

He just lays there, playing dead for long moments. Seconds. Maybe hours. He doesn't know.

A stab of pain causes his spine to arch off of the mattress. He hisses sharply, desperate for any sort of relief. He squints his eyes open, blurrily managing to put together the figure of his brother leaning over him, face creased with concern.

Beyond him, Sam can see Adam. The hazel eyes stare back at him, brow furrowed, lips squinted. He looks like he's both pitying and ready to carve out an eye. His jaw juts out, as if he's prepared to shout. But his voice is soft. "You left me there."

Sam closes his eyes.

_I know._

"You're the only reason that I'm here, Sam." Adam whispers, voice getting closer. "I hate you."

_I know._

Dean must have said something. Calloused fingers tap lightly at his cheek for his attention. He turns his head away and tries to roll over, but gasps when agony splits through his abdomen instead. He groans low in his throat, curling in on himself. His arms wrap around his stomach, but the pressure makes it worse instead of better.

_I think I'm dying._

"...mmy?" Dean is saying. He sounds far away, like he's talking through glass. His fingers are cold against his face, and Sam decides abruptly that he doesn't actually want Dean to move his hand away. He pushes back at the contact, and Dean must be surprised by this, because his fingers jump a little before settling again.

"...hearing…?" Dean asks.

Sam trembles, panting.

_It's in me._

Adam leans against the mattress, one knee pushing forcefully into the bed. His arms cross over his chest, and his head tilts, like Sam is something worth studying. "You should tell him that you liked it, y'know." Adam says nonchalantly. "Dean would like to hear that, I'm sure. About how you're still whatever corrupted thing you pretend you're not."

_This isn't real._

"It isn't, is it?" Adam asks tonelessly. "Because if it was, I'd _be_ there."

Sam's hands tighten into fists over his shirt and he closes his eyes. Dean's hand moves from his forehead to the side of his neck. His fingers push in. Taking his pulse. Sam bites on a whimper. The pressure aches. The whisper of pain slides up through his gums, settling somewhere behind his ears. His heartbeat deafens him.

_Thud. Thud._

He thinks somewhere he hears a ceiling fan. The swish of the metal cutting through the air, sliding through it calmly. Rhythmically. The after images of a devil's trap blink at him. His wrists ache with phantom restraints.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

_Oh, God, help me._

The world is bathed in heat.

Dean's hand pulls back. Then he's gone into the void. When Sam tries to open his eyes, he can't make anything focus. He sees himself at eighteen, staring at him with a bitterness that makes him shy away. Himself at fourteen, standing beside him, mouth pushed into an accusatory line. _We were going to be normal._

He sees his father. His mother. Dean. Split and scattered into dozens of ages and places across the room. Cas. _Boy with the demon blood._ Bobby. Pastor Jim. Jess, staring at him with a pity that makes his heart ache. _Why Sam?_

_I don't know, Jess._

_I can't._ He thinks. He closes his eyes, but the voices still linger. Stringing into a chorus of harsh words and snapping voices.

"...always knew something was wrong with you." His father whispers, "Should have put that bullet in you myself."

They entrap him, hissing, snarling, like they can bite into him with their words and take chunks. Always hungry. Always _wanting._

_I need it._

_God, please make the voices stop. Anything to make them_ stop.

_I need it. Needneeedneedneeedneeeed—_

"Oh, Sam," Ruby's voice next to his ear sighs, "why'd you have to kill me, sweetheart? I could've helped you." Her fingers ghost his face, trying to stroke it, and he jerks back. _No._ The movement sends another burst of heat up through his body and his teeth clench.

_I'm burning. I'm burning alive. I can smell my skin turning to ash._

Lucifer laughs somewhere distant, a chortle that turns his stomach to ice. ( _No, no, no, no—I saw him. He was wounded. Crippled. He's not here. Not here not here notherenotherenothere—)_ Fire burns around him, inside of him. He feels the roar of the flame at the base of his neck.

The blade spins above him, slicing up the air. _Swish, swish, swish._

"Dean," he whispers in desperation. Hand grabbing out, flailing. He was here a second ago. Sam's sure. He...is. He _is._

It seems to take a lifetime and no time at all before "You're a monster, Sam; a vampire." Dean says back. Nothing grabs for him, and why would it? Sam opens his eyes, desperate for any sort of relief. The world blurs into hazy colors. He thinks, somewhere far away, he's beginning to panic.

He moves his hand, surprised when he's met without resistance.

He drifts in the flame. He might fall asleep. He might stay awake forever.

"Do you think that Dad would be proud of us?" Adam asks. His voice is too loud. Sam jolts, eyes snapping up. The motel room is empty save Adam standing there, picking at the underside of his nails. "About the Cage, that is? You put up a good fight for such a long time…" Adam sighs, head tipping back as if reminiscing, "y'know there were times I didn't think that Lucifer would bring you back to sanity, but." He shrugs. "We both know that he controlled that, too."

Sam closes his eyes. "Stop," he whispers, voice hoarse.

The ceiling fan swishes.

Sam thinks he hears someone shift far away. Maybe...maybe Garth? He wants the ambience of the Impala suddenly, the familiar roar eating mile after mile up. Dean's crappy music. It smells like cheap cleaning supplies. Sam's stomach churns and he presses a hand flat against it, as if it's going to help anything.

Something cold touches him. Sam jerks away, inhaling raggedly. "Don't…" he mumbles, eyes flicking open.

Lucifer stares back at him, eyebrows raised. "Sorry, were you sleeping?" His lips curve up and Sam's entire body clenches. "Mm. Pity, that. You earned this respite, sunshine?"

_This isn't—_

_He's not—_

_No, no, no, no—_

Sam's breath explodes in his chest. He scrambles along the length of the bed, tipping off the other side in a heap of limbs. He must smack his head against something, because a sharp stab of pain explodes through it. His teeth clamp together.

_Dean. Cas. Where…?_

_Help..._

Adam squats down in front of him, half his face dripping off. "Do you think that Cas ever regrets the summoning spell he did? Y'know, the one that split you in half? Man, I remember the day that happened, Lucifer was so thrilled, remember? You screamed _forever_ after because it hurt so much. Do you think that Cas hoped you wouldn't notice when he took it? You know, he said that it was an accident, but part of me wonders…maybe it was some sort of punishment."

_Sam, of course, is an abomination._

"Always with the thoughtful questions, Adam, " Lucifer intones, sighing. He pokes Sam's shoulder, the cold numbing the limb, and Sam jumps, smacking his head against the wall again. _Always demanding his attention._ Lucifer looks at Sam, mouth twitching, "Never talked this much before. Should I go over there and quiet him?"

_No._

_No, don't—_

It's not the right vessel. He's wearing Nick, not whatever soul Sam shot six times in the Men of Letters' base.

Adam screeches. Lucifer laughs. Sam tries weakly to move and stop it, but he only ends up collapsing against the floor again when his body shakes too much to do anything.

_This isn't real._

_...isn't it? Sounds real enough to me. That screaming. High and wailing. Where is Michael to protect his vessel, huh?_

_It's. Not. Real._

_But are you_ sure?

"Shut _up,"_ Sam hisses. He presses his hands against his ears, trying to quiet them, curling in on himself against the floor. His abdomen hisses in protest at the movement, and he feels wet tracks leak down his face. His skin hisses, cackling like a livewire.

"You're burning, Sammy," Lucifer whispers. He reaches out for him. "Let's see if we can speed this up."

A hand presses against his forehead. Sam lurches up, his body braced for pain, but the only thing that follows is the hand pushing harder. There's a slur of syllables that don't make sense. Sam tries to focus forward, but the only thing that he can see is Lucifer watching him with a faint smirk, and Adam a silent shadow behind him, trying to cup blood in his hands from where it's leaking from his mouth.

Lucifer took his tongue. Sam feels familiar, sick horror wash through him. _Michael, why didn't you…?_

The hand from nowhere moves to his shoulder as if to steady him. Every touch is hot and painful.

_I don't—_

"Get off me," Sam hisses, shoving the hand back.

Lucifer laughs.

Sam looks at him. _Don't engage,_ his mind whispers frantically, _don't engage. It's worse when you engage—_ " _Shut up!"_

"So _demanding,"_ Lucifer says with annoyance. "Samuel, honestly _—_ "

There's a force on his palm, a jerking pain that makes him pant, vision blackening at the edges, and the images flicker. The pain is enough to remind him, to ground him. _Not real, not real, not real—_

 _(Are you_ sure?)

"Sam. _Sam."_ Words blur together, but not from the archangel nor his younger brother. His eyes snap to the right, and he sees Cas. _Cas?_ The angel is squatted beside him, and his figure blurs the longer Sam looks at him. He's still wearing Dean's jacket. He doesn't have any other clothing, so of course he is. What day is it?

He's squeezing Sam's palm. His blue eyes are focused. "Sam, can you hear me?" He's speaking in Enochian. The rough syllables make him want to both cry and hit him.

Sam hisses, his fingers curling. Cas's skin is cold. Sam wants to lean into it, crawl inside of it and hide in the chilled temperature.

_Everyone says that I burn hot…_

No. He'll stay out here and burn forever.

"C-Caaas?" he slurs. Cas's fingers keep pushing, but he nods. Dean. Where is his brother? Did Lucifer...no. Wait. He's not here. He's not...Cas's eyes are intense, the blue so sharp that Sam feels like he'll get cut on it. Maybe he already has been. _Sam, of course, is an abomination._ "Caaas, heeelp," he tries to explain. To plead. He grips the angel's fingers.

Lucifer rolls his eyes behind them.

Cas nods seriously, clutching Sam's hand back as if to offer support. "Your fever is very high. I think your organs may be shutting down," he says without preamble. Sam squints at him, not understanding. Cas starts to haul him upright, and Sam's entire body rejects that idea with force. He leans forward and heaves, spitting up blood and bile. It burns as it passes up, but he's already spent a good portion of today (today? Yesterday? This week?) throwing up. There's nothing there.

"Could be," Ruby sighs. "If you'd let me."

_Anything to make it stop, I will drink you dry._

_Please. Just. Stop._

_Dean. Dean where…?_

He grips Cas's hand tighter, because it's the only comfort he knows here. He spits, wiping the back of his mouth with a shaking hand. Cas's eyes flit to the side for a moment, and he leans in, "Do you have any idea how much it hurt when they took them? My wings? If I took your soul and started slicing it, slow cut by slow cut, you would only have a margin of an idea."

"I don't...I don't know how much it hurt..." he whispers. His body clenches up. He thinks about Lucifer, grabbing at his soul. And he wonders, trying to make sense of that. Slicing...He thinks he's going to be sick again. "Sorry," he whispers. "Sorry, sorry…"

"Sam, you've done nothing to wrong me." Cas says softly.

Sam stares at him, confused.

But didn't he just say...?

But did he? Dean isn't here, yet he's here. Adam's voice is haunting and familiar, but _not here,_ and maybe he's imagining Cas to comfort himself. Which is stupid. And selfish. Cas is hurting, too.

Cas, whether he's here or not, must feel like he's dying, and Sam is sucking up all the attention because he's being selfish and needy and _—_ _what the—_? _No. Stop. That hurts, stop, stop—_ Cas is hauling him upright into his arms, and Sam's vision flashes white with pain. He chokes.

The ceiling fan whirs on above him, deafening.

" _—_ p, stop, stop, stop _—_ " he's pleading, and can't make himself cease it. Cas sets him on the mattress, and lets him go. Sam feels a sob of relief escape him, and he curls in on himself, gripping at his hair. It's sweat-soaked. Cas's cold fingers contact with his forehead. Sam tries to look back at him. Cas looks worried, as if Sam's head is going to spontaneously combust.

Sam finds he doesn't care.

"D-Dean?" Sam asks.

"He's here," Cas assures. Sam's gaze flicks around, but he sees no evidence of his sibling. Not even Adam. Just the yawning void. And Lucifer. Always Lucifer. "Sam?" Cas asks, and Sam's eyes slide back to him. His teeth press when a tremor runs through him. "Sam, you're in a lot of pain. It might help if I put you to sleep."

"I, um," Sam slurs. He tries to comprehend the words, put them together so they form something meaningful. Sleep. Sleep is good. Sleep means _not_ being here. Sleep...would...the fan swishes. Lucifer tilts his head at him, a mimic of the gesture Cas is doing now. "Yes. Yes, please, I can't…"

Cas nods, looking somewhat relieved, and leans forward to press two fingers against Sam's forehead. Sam grabs his wrist, stopping him, suddenly needing to say something first. "Cas. Cas, I'm sorry. About your wings."

Cas's body clenches up. His mouth grits and his eyes flick away. The wrist beneath his hand bows beneath this pressure, trying to draw away. "Are...are you...in pain?" Sam asks, "I saw...saw them…" he swallows, feeling sick. Thinking about the blade slicing through the feathers and that _sound_ Cas made. It echoes through his mind, adding to the symphony of voices and noises. The ceiling fan swishes.

Cas takes a second to breathe, as if gathering himself back together. Trying to stuff all the pieces back to their appropriate places, but not finding much success. "Sam," Cas says his name carefully, settling his fingers back onto Sam's forehead. "Don't concern yourself with me. You need rest."

_Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters._

"You...you…" Sam tries to explain, but his skull feels like it's being squeezed between two hands until it cracks. His body shakes, and his mouth is dry. "I'm sorry. You're my-my brother. I let you down. Should have...have protected…" _I saw it happen. I saw them tear the wings from your back and the way you_ writhed _and Cas, there was nothing…if...If I had just...been better. Been faster._

"But you aren't better." Adam sighs, somewhere distant, but close enough the words rattle through his skull, "You're just Sam. And it's not enough."

Cas's voice is a quiet command in his mind.

_Sleep._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Switch for prompt #22 withdrawal
> 
> Next chapter: Feb. 21st


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Self-hatred, phantom pains.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful AngelFishOfTheLord

* * *

Castiel finds himself outside. Hiding from his siblings. From Sam. Dean. Garth.

He has little memory of deciding to step out, but he's suddenly there. His body aches. His mind is spinning, and he'd like to set his heart down somewhere that won't hurt. Castiel breathes in deeply, exhaling into the bitter morning air and looks up toward the sky, longing washing through him.

_I don't have any wings. Not anymore._

He could laugh at his earlier ignorance. He didn't understand what it meant for them to be _gone._ Even when they broken, they were part of him. It may have taken thousands of years, but there was the possibility that he'd heal. Now…

Now he has nothing.

His bites on the inside of his cheek and pulls his eyes down to the asphalt. It _—_ as Castiel knows to be common in London _—_ is raining again. The sky casts a twinkling dew of droplets onto the nearby buildings. In the small overcropping of the building, he's hidden from the worst of the spray.

Castiel wraps Dean's black jacket around himself, not for warmth so much as comfort. He carefully slides down against the grimey motel wall, leveling his back up against something, hiding it, protecting it, and just stares.

There's not much to see. The gas station offers little in the way of customers, and Castiel privately believes that Dean made the first reservation the motel had in years. The stolen vehicle sits out in front of him, despite Dean's quiet assertions that they need to get rid of it before the Men of Letters follow them back here. They weren't subtle in their escape.

Castiel knows it's a possibility they'll be back. Perhaps a guarantee. He's not stupid.

And yet…

Yet, he finds himself horrified at the idea. What they _took…_

He shakes his head, teeth gritted. It doesn't matter what they took. It doesn't matter that the low throb of pain scattering through him makes it hard to concentrate on anything but screaming. Castiel is not allowed weaknesses. He's an angel. A guardian. An injured protector is a liability, not a help. And Castiel won't allow himself to be a hindrance. Not again.

Castiel pulls his knees up against himself, watching the rain fall. It's not heavy, but it's lively enough to cause a nearby drainage system to work loudly.

He doesn't know how long he's been out here, doesn't really care, when the door opens and a bedraggled Dean steps out. He needs a long rest, a shower, and a shave. He's beginning to look like the drug addicts Castiel grew acquainted with after Metatron took his grace. Castiel lifts his head up, a pit of dread and hopelessness gaining a familiar forefront in his mind.

Dean smells like rot and sulfur. The scent that is sucking up the motel room. Castiel would sooner lose ability to speak than admit to Sam that remaining in the room for too long makes him want to heave. He's already biting on a gag alone from Dean's presence. It's unholy. Like slipping into a pool of filth. The air out here is tainted, but so much easier to breathe. Castiel had forgotten how overwhelming Sam's presence was when they first met. Sam may not have been an antichrist, but he'd smelled so profusely of death.

"Is Sam awake?" he asks, starting to get up.

Because he may hate any time he spends in between those four walls, but he won't allow the younger hunter to suffer. Induced sleep seems to be the only thing that's worked the last hours, even if it wears off quickly, reducing Sam to mumbles of Enochian and panicking seizures and shaking.

Dean can't command him to sleep like Castiel can. His siblings refuse to. It's only him. As always.

"No," Dean is quick to deter, shutting the door, "he's still out. Garth is watching him at the moment. He, uh, has better senses than I do for it." Dean's eyes skirt away, as if this is something to be ashamed of. Castiel frowns, feeling lost. But he doesn't get up from the ground, reluctant to leave his perch.

Dean squats down beside him, clearly much more unwilling to getting wet than Castiel is. "Hey, um, you doing okay? You been out here awhile."

Castiel sighs, covering his face with his hands for a moment. _Please don't give me the leftovers of your concern because Sam won't have it,_ he thinks harshly. He bites on his tongue, refusing to say it outloud, knowing how much it would crush Dean. And he can't do that. Not _now,_ not while he's so fragile.

What is wrong with him? He'd profess to protect them, but attacks them mercilessly in his thoughts?

Castiel drops his hands, reluctant to say anything.

He thinks about Sam. Endlessly apologizing for his wings whenever there's a glint of recognition of him, over and over, as if he was a catalyst in it. (He wasn't, Castiel knows this, Sam knows this, there's no way that Sam _could_ have been. This is just commiseration.)

And Castiel doesn't understand why he's so _angry_ with this. Sam's regret should be a ressurance, but his pity is something to choke on. He doesn't _want_ their pity. He doesn't need it. His siblings have done what they can and it should be enough. He shouldn't be expecting support. Nor any recognition that he has suffered. A wound in heaven was healed and ignored. It didn't _linger._

"Yes, Dean," he says with more bite than is necessary. "I'm fine. Do you want something?"

He turns his eyes harshly to the Winchester, and Dean draws back from them a fraction. Castiel bites harshly on a feeling of satisfaction. Dean lifts up his hands, gaze skittering away from him. "No, Cas, I don't...sorry."

Regret soon encamps the satisfaction, and Castiel rubs at his face, hiding behind his hands. A human gesture. Disgust, longing, and frustration whisper through him. _I am an angel,_ he thinks with force, awash with panic. _I'm not one of them._

 _Crippled as you are, are you sure that's true anymore?_ A quiet voice sneers. _You're running around and screaming denial, but the only one fooled is you._

Castiel breathes out steadily, and looks up. Dean's green eyes stare back at him, swirling forest green into nothingness. "I'm sorry," Castiel says quietly, "I'm not angry with you." He adds, unsure if he's lying. Because he finds himself directing it toward the Winchesters, despite having a why. Maybe somewhere...somewhere he _is_ angry.

But for what purpose?

_Why, why, why._

This is the reason that Naomi had to wipe him. Because Castiel gets caught up on whys instead of reactions. He has to _know._ He has to understand because he's broken.

"Yeah. No. It's good," Dean assures, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. His eyes jump. This feeling, Castiel knows, Dean is familiar with. Castiel ducks his eyes away, staring at the wet pavement. There's cracks, weathering having run its course across the cement for several decades. No maintenance. No repairs. Broken.

If he had been normal, if he hadn't rebelled...if he _hadn't_ done this, Castiel would still have his wings. The sky quietly calling to him could be answered. If Castiel had admitted his faults and his doubts after pulling Dean from the Pit, Naomi would have fixed him. And he would not be cracking into fissures like this cement.

And his siblings would still care.

To whatever degree they did as emotionless hammers.

Dean nudges his knee. Castiel looks up at him, mouth dry, eyes wet. His vessel is reacting to his distress. Dean studies his face for several long, hard seconds, eyes searching. Castiel feels the urge to cover his face again, and wants to scream. _I am not a human. I shouldn't_ have _these urges._

"Cas?" Dean's voice, when it finally does come, is unexpectedly gentle.

He'd expected shouting. Anger. Something _easier_ to predict. But this...this _kindness..._

Cas breathes out unsteadily, biting at his lower lip. He tucks his arms close to himself, burying a grimace deep inside when the stumps of his wings are pulled inside of his vessel. The convenience of attaching their true forms to the human nervous system had never felt so much like a prison until now.

"Why are you out here, Dean?" Cas asks, tone a fraction softer.

Dean's head cocks minutely. A gesture Cas has seen his siblings do thousands of times before, and has an urge to smack the hunter for. _We're bleeding into each other,_ he thinks frantically, _I don't know where I begin and they end anymore._ "Because you've been out here a while and _—_ " Dean starts to explain.

" _Don't_ lie to me," Cas snaps, sweeping his head up to stare sharply at his face. Dean flinches. Barely noticeable to an outside observer, but stark to him. Dean's fingers bounce for a second, as if unsure whether to start shaking from anxiety or clench into fists.

 _Stop this._ Castiel chides himself. _You're not a fledgling._

 _"_ I'm _not._ Stop trying top pick a fight with me." Dean says, starting to sound frustrated for the first time since stepping outside. He shifts on his feet, likely to relieve his calf muscles. His hands clench. Castiel looks away, breath caught in his throat.

"I'm not _trying_ to pick a fight with you _—_ "

"Yeah?" Dean's voice is riddled with unsounded laughter. "You know what? You're a moron."

Castiel looks at him sharply, strangely and deeply stung. He doesn't say anything. He has no defense because it's true. Dean's expression flattens a little. "It's not your fault."

Cas scoffs. There's no need for clarification. He doesn't even know if he could get the words into open air through his tight throat. "The only reason Sam is in there is because of me. If Lucifer hadn't tracked my grace, if _I_ had just protected him from Lucifer, then this wouldn't have _happened."_

Dean is shaking his head in minute gestures Castiel doubts he's even aware of. "You didn't entice this. No one blames you, Cas." At Castiel's doubtful expression, Dean adds carefully, "Look. I'm not happy about the way things turned out, but no one _is."_ A heavy sigh, "Would it make you feel better if I yelled at you?"

Maybe, Castiel thinks miserably. At least then he wouldn't have to keep beating the hunter to the punch.

His wards are in place once more. Sam and Dean are safe from being tracked by other angels. But it was late, as it usually is. Some guardian he has made. _I have failed as an angel. It is no wonder they would disown me so readily._

Castiel's shoulders draw together. The fabric of his borrowed shirt rubs against his spine, and a low thrum of pain whispers through him. "You can't remove fault from me because you want to wallow in self hatred." He mumbles to the concrete. His fists clench and his eyes sting as he admits, "I've earned my just reward."

Dean makes a sound that's somewhere between a scoff and a choked cough. There's a moment of heavy, pained silence, then the hunter punches his arm, hard. Castiel winces, squinting up at him in confusion. Dean's eyes are hard, but there's something there he can't interpret. Anger, maybe...pity.

"Don't say that. You didn't deserve it." Dean says angrily. "You didn't _deserve_ to get de-feathered. I will tell you this every day when we get home until it is branded on the inside of your eyelids."

_Ha._

"We get back to the Bunker, and then what?" Castiel finds himself gritting out. "The Men of Letters are still out there. So is Lucifer. What are we going to do, Dean?"

Dean is quiet at the question, as if the answer escapes him as well in a rare moment of honesty. His eyes have skirted away. And Castiel finds that he would have preferred an inappropriate joke or some sort of Dean's usual attitude. This...solemnity isn't helping.

Castiel pushes his palms into his eye sockets, uncertain why he's even asking. It's not even at the forefront of his mind. He doesn't care. Let them come. At least this will be over. He shifts, his back discomforted by his position.

"I'm not sure. We'll figure it out," Dean says quietly. "We always do."

"No. We don't. We find a bigger problem to cancel out the first one." Castiel breathes between clenched teeth. His mouth tightens. His shoulders are beginning to pulse. A tension has settled in his abdomen, stretching and pulling on it like someone is attempting to make puppet strings from the organs. The urge to be sick pushes at the roof of his mouth. He swallows.

Dean's fingers ghost on his shoulder, as if trying to offer comfort or perhaps catch his attention. It's too much. The sense shoots up to his skull and swirls there, twisting neurons and making him clutch at breath desperately in an effort to cease the pain.

Some sort of noise escape him, a sob clouded in a scream, all catching in his throat. A ripple of agony washes through his stumps, aching with pressure until it feels like his back is going to explode.

"Don't, dont, don't _—_ " he's hissing, but Dean's hand is long gone, snapped away the moment Castiel began to hunch forward.

"Hey, hey _—_ what's wrong?" Dean's voice is close, nearly frantic, "Are you hurt? I can't see any blood. Is it your wings? Son of a _—_ Cas! _Talk to me!"_

Castiel surges up. His spine seems to snap as he twists around sharply to face the hunter. The pain makes him want to tip over, but he stands his ground, too overshadowed by rage and panic to cease. Breathing heavily, he shoves Dean forcefully away from him, " _STOP IT!"_

Dean staggers, eyes wide, face pale, "What? Cas? I don't _—_ "

" _Stop!"_

"Cas _—_?"

"Stop _caring!"_ he explodes, and finds with daunting horror now that he's started to talk, he can't seem to _stop_ , "You're not supposed to care! We're not brothers! You're a mortal man that I was assigned to guard and have failed miserably at. You're not supposed to _care about me._ Angels take care of their own! My siblings will look after me, as they always have, and _you shouldn't—"_ he cuts himself off at last, clenching trembling hands and choking on a strangled sound. _Shut it, shut it, shut it._

And here his truth lay.

Because it's desperation. A desire that will never be fulfilled, and can't be. He betrayed heaven, and though the rare angel will follow after him, it's not because they care. It's because they don't understand the world around them and Castiel has more experience navigating it than they do. Lucifer _atomized_ him, Balthazar was a twisted gathering of lies, Hannah ditched him the soonest moment that she could.

Dean is staring at him. Wide-eyed, stiff, as if he's unsure if moving with enact another shout from him. Somewhere deep inside, humiliation makes his mouth taste bitter. Dean rocks his weight forward a fraction, as if he wants to touch, to offer some sort of comfort, and Castiel turns his gaze away.

_See, you're not my brother. The other angels, they hate you._

His family will never care about him in the way that the Winchesters look after each other.

_I can't even look at you, Castiel._

It's just not in their nature.

_You deserved to have them taken._

Even though Castiel longs for it to be.

The world around him glistens, and Castiel feels his breath beginning to stutter. His hands shake, lungs compressing to the point of pain. His shoulders burn. His eyes squeeze shut. His stumps feel like they're being dragged slowly over a rack. He can feel the aching pulse of wing tips dragging on the earth and it _doesn't make sense-_

Hands grip his wrists. Cold upon contact. The grip at which Dean is clenching makes it seem as though they should be in agony, but they aren't. He can't feel it. Only his wings. They're cramping, as they used to do when he was a fledgling and first learning to fly. The ache, twisted and hollow, as if they're a music box lever turned to begin playing. They're gone. They can't _hurt._ They're _not there to hurt._

His anger drops, landing somewhere next to his feet in broken, listeless pieces.

"D-Dean," he gasps, feeling his hands spasm and his shoulders pinch. Dean understands human autonomy. His eyes swing up frantically to find the hunter's, hoping for some sort of explanation. The next blow of pain sends him toppling toward the earth, smashing against his knees. Dean follows him down, but seems at a loss of what to do.

"Help, _help,_ I can't _—_ "

"Cas, hey, shh," Dean's thumbs rub against his wrists. "Talk to me."

"They're _—_ they're gone," Castiel chokes. He gasps, tearing his hands from Dean's to reach back and grab at his spine. The rough feeling of Dean's jacket is all that meets him, and the action sprouts more pain. Wet, thin lines of tears streak down his face. It hurts. Why does it _hurt?_ "They're gone, why would...why would…" he moans through his teeth.

_Why would they torment him?_

He's not looking at Dean, but recognizes when realization seems to hit the Winchester, because he shifts abruptly and grips Cas's shoulders, "Hey, just breathe with me, okay? It'll pass. Just breathe. It's a phantom pain, okay? It's _—_ It's this weird thing that human brains do to cope with missing limbs. I, uh, guess yours is trying to compensate for what it...lost."

_Oh, Father, show me mercy._

" _I'm...not...human..."_ Castiel hisses. _And yet, you're not an angel._ He shudders, and squeezes his eyes closed at the pain. It whispers against him, tightening it's hold with ferocity. The pain gathers to a strength that he opens his mouth in a wordless, hoarse noise of agony.

Then as quickly as it's there, it's gone. As if flicking off a light switch. Faint tenderals whisper through him, but not enough to incapacitate him.

Castiel slumps forward, suddenly boneless and panting. Dean catches him. He grips Cas's shoulders tightly, keeping him from smacking against the pavement. Castiel heaves, clawing against Dean's shirt for purchase. He breathes in the familiar scent: gun oil, leather, and cheap shampoo, trying to take some measure of comfort from it. _I understand this._

They sit there for long minutes, Castiel gritting his teeth through several more spasms.

"Sorry. I guess I didn't think...I didn't know this would…" Dean says quietly.

Castiel breathes out shakily. He doesn't know what to say, and feels spent. He closes his eyes and lets Dean support him. He wants to cry. Dean keeps talking, "Me and Sam didn't see a lot of hunters when we were growing up, y'know? Dad didn't...he didn't really like us interacting with them that much. But we came across more than a few missing a few parts. One guy didn't have anything past his mid left thigh 'cause a witch got the better of him. Used to be able to tell the weather with his phantom pains. Not that you need to know...I just. Sorry. I'm not ignorant to this stuff, I should have warned you."

 _Should have..._ what is it with the Winchesters and that phrase? Castiel shifts. "It's not your job to take care of me."

 _It's mine to take care of_ you.

Dean is quiet for what feels like an age. "Cas, don't you get that we _want_ to?"

Castiel pauses, caught between disbelief and confusion. They...what? No, that doesn't...Castiel's eyes open. He leans back to stare the hunter's face, bewildered and hurt as much as he is strangely warmed by the words. His wings twinge, and his teeth grind. "I _—_ I don't...understand."

Dean's shoulders drop a fraction, and he sighs softly. Like he didn't expect anything different, but wanted to. "You don't have to. Just...please let us take care of you?" Dean's eyes flick away as if he pulled the words out from behind his teeth. But the sincerity in them isn't any less. Castiel feels his eyes grow wet again.

 _I don't..._ his thought trails off, lost.

Dean flexes his fingers out, obviously uncomfortable, then reaches out a hand and presses it against Castiel's forehead. Castiel looks up at the limb, confused. Humans can't sense body temperature accurately, why is he…? "You're burning up," Dean sighs, "you need to get horizontal. Sam shouldn't be up for at least another hour and a half. Your grace is probably running on zero right now, and you're onry."

He suspects Dean's trying to be funny, but the last thing Castiel wants to do is laugh.

Dean's hands hover in front of him for a moment, as if he wants to draw Castiel into an embrace, but isn't sure if he's permitted. Castiel's skin aches at the idea of contact. Dean must understand, because he doesn't try to touch him.

Dean gets up, hauling Castiel with him. Castiel staggers, a whisper of pain shooting through his shoulders. His fingers clench. Dean starts to support him toward the door, and Castiel watches the wood loom closer with dread.

"Dean," Castiel says as the hunter's hand grabs for the doorknob. Dean stops. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Dean answers tiredly, shoving open the door and pulling Castiel inside. His siblings immediately look up from their various positions in the room, and Castiel feels embarrassment creep into his face, heating it. They likely heard every word exchanged outside. The wall may serve as a muffler, but not by that much.

 _I am tired,_ he thinks with force and despair, _of leaving bits of myself everywhere to collect. For once, I want all my secrets to be my own._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Alt. 15 Carry/Support
> 
> Next chapter: Feb 22nd.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Self-worth issues, gore
> 
> beta'd by the lovely AngelfFishOfTheLord

* * *

Garth is sitting at the small table, and looks up as they approach.

Dean deposits Castiel on the other bed, and gives him a firm instruction to "sleep" before patting him on the arm twice and slipping across the room to check on Sam. The younger hunter's body is boneless against the mattress, face so gray and colorless that he looks like a corpse. Only the panting, hissed breaths pushed from him offer any indication he's alive.

Castiel rolls to his side to watch them, biting at his lower lip. The detox in the panic room after Famine had taken days. The one before that Castiel had been unsure Sam would survive. When he'd asked Zackariah about when to interfere, he'd received a sneered, "before his organs explode" in return.

Sleeping seems to help, but none of them know how much demon blood Sam was given. A lot, if the smell is anything to go by. But it doesn't matter. A small amount, a large one, it's all the same putrid scent.

And, even in the midst of this pain, Sam is concerned for _him._ Dean...checked on him. Outside. His chest twists with pain.

 _They care more for me than my siblings ever have. Perhaps more than they can. How can something that doesn't know love express it?_ Castiel closes his eyes softly, releasing a quiet breath. _(You deserved to have them taken.)_ His wings throb dully beneath their encasement. He's not relaxing, and he doesn't try.

There's a shuffling of footsteps. Garth makes a soft sound. "Wait, what're _—_ " Dean starts to say, then there's a boneless thump as a body smacks against the ground.

Castiel's eyes snap open, throwing off exhaustion as best he can. As if it's some sort of blanket he needs to detangle himself from. He jerks his head up and his eyes flick to the hunter on instinct. He's laying on the floor beside Sam's mattress, limbs askew. Ezekiel stands over him, fingers resting on the Winchester's forehead.

_What the—?_

Castiel finds himself hissing a curse as he yanks out his angel blade and begins to scramble off of the mattress, "Get away from them!" he snaps, wishing he didn't feel weak. Crippled. The sword shakes in his grip.

Ikoria stands behind Ezekial, and tense as Castiel shoves his blade beneath the angel's chin. Ezekiel rises as Castiel forces him to his feet, away from the downed hunter. "What are you _doing?"_

"We need to talk," Ezekiel says, toneless. His eyes bore into Castiel, his aura pushing against him. Castiel can't push back, but he holds his ground. "And I'd rather it was without an audience. Or," his eyes shift to Sam, unconscious, _vulnerable,_ and Castiel bristles, "without this unholy scent. Come with us."

Castiel feels something bitter crawl out of his throat. Laughter. He's laughing. "I'm not _stupid,_ Ezekiel. Do you honestly think _—_?"

Ezekial shoves down the blade with the tip of his finger, glancing once at something behind Castiel. "You misunderstand. This wasn't a request."

There's a pressure against his spine, and Castiel feels himself clench up. His shoulder blades attempt to snap together at the force of his discomfort. A weapon. There's a weapon, angel sword, maybe, sitting against his vessel's spinal column. "What _—_?" Castiel starts to say, hand tightening around his sword.

There's a harsh shove against his shoulder, and Castiel staggers a step forward. He glances frantically behind himself toward Dean and Sam, but there's no movement from either of them. Dean is collapsed against the floor, boneless, and Sam is still like death.

Ezekiel turns and sweeps his way from the room. Another harsh push toward his back and Castiel scrambles forward in his haste to avoid any physical contact. They exit the room, the door snapping closed behind them.

Ezekiel guides them toward the side of the motel, away from any prying eyes not coming toward them on the road, and stops. He turns around to face Castiel and his expression is strangely sympathetic. This doesn't lower his unease in the slightest.

"My apologies," Ezekiel says calmly.

Castiel twists his fingers, spinning the blade into a knife-pick grip. He narrows his eyes at the angel and feels something twist inside of his chest. Like an ache. Or a low throb of pain. He doesn't say anything, waiting. If he wants to talk, he can talk. Castiel isn't going to entice him.

Ezekiel sighs, stepping closer. Castiel wants to draw back, but there's nowhere to _go_. "We don't mean you any harm. We're trying to help you, brother."

 _Right. They always are, aren't they?_ The thought is surprisingly bitter. Castiel's eyebrows lift, and he bites on a scoff of disbelief. "How is endangering my kith and shoving me out of the room at the end of a weapon remotely helpful?"

Ezekiel's eyes squint, jaw bunching like he wants to say something harsh, but refrains from doing so after a moment of thinking. Castiel digs his vessel's fingers into the cool metal of the angel sword. Ezekiel's words are careful, "Brother, you have been with the humans for too long. Do you not see what they're doing to you?"

Castiel's gaze flicks away.

"You lost your _wings_ because you linger with them!" Ezekiel's tone isn't quite a shout, but it's crawling there. _And I lost the ability to_ think _in heaven. There is no happy medium here._ "How could you possibly want to linger with a damned soul and an abomination? You are an _angel,_ Castiel."

The words spin inside of him, cutting and sharp. But familiar. _Oh, so familiar._ Castiel takes a step to the left, casting the other three angels into the light. The shadow of the roof falls over him, the soft trickle of rain soaking into his hair. He doesn't know what to say, his mouth flailing for a moment. His tongue is dry.

"Come with us," Ezekiel says, casting a glance towards Ikoria, Armian, and Terran. He opens his palms out, inviting, "When we get to heaven, you can receive proper care for your wings from what Ritz Zein remain. There is nothing that the humans can do for you anymore. To stay is to condemn yourself."

Castiel's stomach twists. He wants to keep backing up, as if the physical distance will mean anything. He glances toward the hotel, "But...but I have…"

A mission. Charges. Family.

_Father, help me because—oh, I want this._

Ezekiel steps toward him, a faint smile trying at the corners of his lips. His hand reaches out hesitantly and grips Castiel's shoulder. Castiel tries not to shudder beneath the contact. It's not like Sam or Dean's. It lacks human warmth or affection. It makes him ache rather than reassures him.

"Angels look after their own." Ezekiel says firmly. Castiel doesn't know if it's the parroting of his earlier words, or the fact that Ikoria's lip curled in disgust that shakes him from this fantasy. It's not...real. Their affection is...forced. Ezekiel hand is cold, the other angels are looking anywhere but him, as if waiting for this to be over so they can leave.

So they can _leave._

This...this isn't about...this isn't about _him._ This isn't about family. This…

Despair smashes through any hope that had been building. The burning ache of pain and loss chokes him.

"You…" Castiel blinks and pulls back, his body rocking slightly. An edge of exhaustion carves into his grace, tempting to topple him. He wants to lay down. He wants to collapse to his knees and stop fighting. Just... _stop._ And while he's wishing, curling into the back of the Impala and sleeping for hours sounds wonderful. With Sam and Dean in the front, it's one of the few places Castiel has ever felt safe enough to lose consciousness on purpose.

His hands clench, his palm flexing awkwardly around the hilt of his sword.

He pulls back from Ezekiel. "What do you want from me?" he demands. His voice grates, cracking on the edge of desperation.

Ezekiel draws back. "Why would you think that we want anything?"

 _Because the only thing I am is useful. Not wanted. Just useful._ Castiel scoffs, shifting his feet. His vision grays out for a moment, and he has to blink rapidly to make it focus. What is _wrong_ with him? The other angels have started to move forward as well, almost frantic in their movements.

"Because you heard me. Outside the motel." Castiel grits between his teeth. _You're saying what I want to hear to make me compliant,_ he keeps to himself. They all know it's true. There's no need to say it. He starts to worry his lower lip between his teeth, but stops himself. These stupid, stupid human gestures he's been mimicking for nearly a decade. They're making him weaker. Easier to read.

Ezekiel's eyes darken a fraction. His hands clench. "Castiel," his voice is tight with patience.

"No." Castiel says and feels heat burn inside of him. Angry. Hissing. "No. You've all made it clear what I am to you. I'm not a hammer, Ezekiel. I'm not something for you to manipulate." He starts to stalk toward the sidewalk on an unsteady gait, but Ikoria grabs his arm. He starts to yank his arm out of her grip with a harsh cuss.

"Stop and _listen,_ you idiot! The Morningstar killed all the other angles in the compound." She snaps harshly. His sister's nails dig into the jacket's sleeve, bruising in their intensity. " _We_ were next. That...demon," her lips curl around the term, "saved us. To stay with them is to die."

He...what? Dean didn't mention this. Dean didn't tell him there were others. There was the Ritz Zein, but he didn't...he didn't...how many angels did the Men of Letters have captured? How many of his siblings did he condemn to their care when Metatron used _his_ grace to cast them from heaven?

"I _know."_ Castiel manages to wiggle his arm from her grip, leveling his gaze with hers. "I have known that since I rebelled. But the Winchesters are my responsibility. And they're my friends."

Ikoria's nostrils flare, and she strikes him harshly across the face. Not expecting the blow, Castiel's head swings with the force of the movement, the loss of equilibrium nearly toppling him. "You simpleton!" she shouts, "The Devil is out there looking for a vessel, and your _precious Boy King_ is readying himself up for the taking!"

 _What?_ Sam's...Sam's not…

Castiel looks at her, wiping blood from the side of his mouth. His skin prickles faintly with discomfort. " _What?"_

"He's drinking demon blood! He's corrupted and we _all know this!_ He's speaking Lucifer's name in Enochian, and he's clearly deranged. Yet you ignore this. What have they done to you? Are you so broken that you can't see what they're doing!?" Ikoria grabs his shoulders and shakes him roughly. The world trembles around him.

Lucifer is out. Lucifer is looking for a vessel. He's not with the Men of Letters anymore. Castiel had expected this, but he'd hoped that somehow the Men of Letters would restrain him. His ignorance, as ever, is a shield to hide him from the truth.

Castiel jerks from her grip, backing up. "Sam didn't take demon blood to prepare to be Lucifer's _vessel."_ The idea feels him with a vague sense of nausea. "Sam would kill himself before allowing that to happen again."

He can't even comprehend...how could they even toy with the idea? Have they not heard what _else_ Sam has been saying? Begging for mercy. For Adam to quiet? Lucifer to silence? Why are they so selective with their hearing?!

Ikoria snorts, "Certainly."

Castiel leans in toward her, "No. He would." He closes his eyes, teeth pressing together in frustration. He doesn't have the will to deal with them anymore. He shakes his head, turning away. He moves for the sidewalk, intending to return the motel and put the flimsy piece of wood between himself and his siblings.

"Wait! Castiel, please, you've left heaven after casting us from it _—_ tell us how we can return without our wings." Ezekiel pleads sharply.

Oh.

_Oh._

Castiel stops, his shoulders bunching up. _They need me here because they need my information. That's why they keep trying to prevent me from running off. They don't care about me. Just what I will do for them. Like usual._

Castiel turns and sees that the angels have drawn together, coming up behind them. Castiel looks at them, feeling strangely cold. Part of him is tempted then to say nothing, and leave these angels to wrestle the answers out for themselves.

_You deserved to have them taken._

Castiel's lips press into a hard line. He shoves his angel blade into the ether. "Listen very closely," he says, his voice dropping with his frustration, " _I_ didn't cast the angels from heaven. Metatron did."

"The scribe? Why would _—_?" Terran starts.

"His reasons don't matter! The only gate into heaven was created by him. It's in North America. Ask any angel there and they'll tell you. Naomi may send someone for you if you ask. If you want to return, you'll have to find means by which to get yourselves overseas." Castiel says, tone flat.

 _I'm not going to take you. You'd rather see me burn than help me. And I can't. I_ can't.

He turns away from his siblings confused questions. His heart throbs. His body shakes and his vision twists with blurring. His stumps twist with a sharp agony, more of that strange, absent pain and he heaves a choked sound, staggering into the motel wall and clutching at his shoulders.

He looks up and sees his vision floating, items splitting into twos and threes. He doesn't understand, but he doesn't get the time to. His knees give way and he stumbles into the sidewalk sharply. Castiel slumps against the hard stone and squeezes his eyes closed.

"You're getting worse." Ezekiel says to his left.

"Shut up," Castiel grits between his teeth, eyes still squeezed shut.

"Your grace could be infected." Ezekiel continues, tone almost sympathetic.

"And why would you care?" Castiel asks, looking up at him. His vessel blurs into two distinct figures and refuses to conjoin.

Ezekiel stares at him for a long, hard moment, almost as if wondering the same. Castiel pulls his eyes away and tries to bury the sting of pain this causes him. "Why will you not give us coordinates? Have we not helped you? We are your siblings, Castiel." Ezekiel continues.

Castiel holds his stare, wrapping himself tighter into Dean's jacket. A sense of safety and loss touches at him when Dean's scent briefly wafts up toward him. His words are tight, but no less true. "No. My brothers are in that motel room. Get out of here before we both do something we'll regret."

Ezekiel's mouth gapes. He struggels to find any words. "You would choose _humans_ over us?"

( _Cas, don't you get that we_ want _to?)_

_(Your my brother, Cas.)_

"Yes." Castiel says. He doesn't have anything more to add. He doesn't want to. He can't keep arguing with them, they won't understand and, Castiel expects, don't care to try. He claws his way up to his feet, exhausted, but firm. The four other angels blink back at him, a mix between disgusted and offended. He doesn't care to soothe their aching feelings.

Instead, he turns towards the motel room and staggers his way there, back to his family.

000o000

He's standing in a pile of bodies.

The epicenter of destruction and blood. He can see the skin covered in swathes of it: theirs and his own. His hands are clenched around the blade. He's looking into their dead eyes. He wants to be sick, but his throat is closed off. His mouth tastes like ash, and his nose is filled with the scent of rotting flesh and iron.

_I did this._

He's breathing raggedly. In. Out. Shallow, deep; pained and relaxed.

He wants to step away, but he wants to keep going.

His head tilts a fraction, and he sees the dark brown hair cast over the pale, bloody face before recognizing the features. Sam. Dead eyes gaze up at him, glassy, but relieved. His lips are twitching on a smile, almost as if his last thought was _thank you._ Beside him is Cas, bloody and broken, angel blade stabbed down through his chest, sternum broken, face void of any emotion. He's staring at an empty shell, grace drained. There's nothing here but Jimmy's corpse.

Everywhere he looks, they're staring at him, outreaching, and shying away.

And he stands in the center. The cause for this epidemic. And he feels little regret. He can see his father, his mother, tangled together, covered in burns and the remains of their split-open ribcages.

"You always were an artist," Alastair sighs behind him. He startles, turning to look back at the demon, feeling sick. He did this, and he thinks he's horrified somewhere, but all he can feel is the need to keep pushing. The Mark burns on his arm, singing a praise of work well accomplished. It's glowing softly against his skin. Alastair leans down next to Sam, and brushes hair from his face.

Sam doesn't twitch. Red leaks slowly from the corner of his mouth, tracing a dark path down his jawline.

His chest compresses, "Don't…" he whispers, but his voice is hoarse and he coughs, choking. Blood spills from his lips, silencing him. He can't speak to protest, but he can't move to stop it either. The demon traces macabre fingers down Sam's cheek in a gesture of corrupted comfort.

Alastair glances up at him, mouth twisting up in a grin. "You're all alone down here, Dean Winchester. Tell me, how does that feel?"

 _Like being suspended by my wrists,_ he thinks, _the longer I hang, the harder it gets to breathe._

But he's not alone. He's...he's standing in the midst of these bodies. He can see the red gleam of Charlie's hair. Kevin's burned eyes. Bobby, Ellen, Jo. All gone. All dead. All by him. _And I liked it._ The knife in his hand holds the weight of souls, yet is somehow so light it's an attachment to his arm. He cut them all up, stabbed, gutted, sliced. Like he was chopping freakin' fruit.

_And I liked it, Sammy._

"Do you think he's going to wake up?" Alastair asks, looking at Sam.

He makes a noise in his throat, but no words come out.

Sam has to. Sam fell unconscious awhile ago, and...wait, no that doesn't seem right. Cas put him to sleep. Alastair looks directly at him, and hums in pity. "My star pupil, still cutting up bodies without our influence. I'm so proud."

He...didn't...no.

But the Mark…

_You will not be able to fight it forever._

He looks at Cas and swallows along his dry throat. ( _Everyone but me.)_ The air he inhales is coppery and thick. Alastair huffs with amusement and slight depreciation. He slides a hand over Sam's eyes, closing them, breaking off that endless, empty stare.

"You've been here awhile, Dean." Alastair sighs, tipping his head to look up at him. His eyes flick Stygian. "You better wake up before you forget how to."

The demon flicks his chin up. Dean's head swings to the side sharply, neck snapping. He flails, boneless, falling. He expects to feel the ground meet his spine with a sharp slap of pain, but he smashes into himself instead.

Dean jerks awake, breath escaping him in a gust, his limbs trembling; the world dark and blurring.

His breaths are soft, but rasping.

His hands shift without conscious thought, and he finds himself rubbing a thumb over where the Mark burned against his skin. The area feels slightly disfigured, like a bump of scar tissue from a bad burn. There's a faint white line where it sat, but beyond that, little evidence that anything was there.

It's gone.

_It's gone._

He killed. And he liked it.

He rubs his shaking hand over his mouth and looks up. He's fine. It's fine. _Breathe._ He exhales. His heart pounds against his chest. He swallows. He can't remember where he is or what he's doing here. The bodies flash as after images behind his eyelids whenever he blinks: Sam laying in the hospital bed. Charlie slumped in the bathtub. Cas in that chair, utterly human and dead. Kevin laying on the floor of the Bunker.

His hand pushes into the hard carpet, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to find some sort of balance. Where…?

Sam. Demon blood. Cas's wings. Motel on the outskirts of London.

Dean shoves up, looking wildly around the room for a moment. He's laying on the ground beside the bed Sam is resting on top of, and his shoulder is numb. He has no memory of laying down. He was standing beside Sam's beside one moment, taking the sluggish pulse and wondering if Cas was going to kill something when fingers had brushed his forehead. Nothing after that. Nothing but black.

Dean's eyes flit, frantic, jumping across the room; looking for what woke him. _(You've been here awhile.)_ Sam is still slumped on the mattress, hair sweat-soaked and a mess around his face. He's curled onto one side, hands wrapped around his head. He looks awful, but not any more so than earlier.

There's a sharp hissing sound, and Dean swivels his head around, looking for Cas and the other angels. Garth is asleep on top of the desk, which strikes Dean as strange because someone was supposed to be keeping watch. Garth said he'd stay up.

Cas is gone.

So are the angels.

And Garth is asleep. And Dean has no memory of deciding _to_ sleep. Someone put them both to rest. Angelic rest.

The pit of dread that opens in his stomach is as sharp as it is all-consuming. _Crap._ He scrambles forward on numb legs and presses numb fingers against Garth's neck. There's no pulse, and for a moment, Dean is frantic with panic before he realizes that Garth is technically dead. He doesn't have a pulse. It's why the wolves eat the hearts, they have to find some way to replace that.

Dean curses under his breath, shoving at the hunter. "Garth," he hisses, "Garth, I swear, if you died, I'm going to tell Bess it was something lame. Like you tripped down a porch. Garth, c'mon, c'mon..."

He doesn't know why the angels would have killed Garth and left him alone, but a thought occurs to him: Garth is a monster, Dean is an angel vessel. If they thought they were just...cleaning up...

 _Please, please..._ Garth groans lowly and pushes back from Dean's hand. His limbs grow momentarily weak with the strain of relief, and he breathes out stiffly. _Oh, thank God._ Dean pats the man's arm once, casting a glance back toward Sam once to make sure he's not convulsing before he tears open the motel door and steps outside.

The bright light of a mid-afternoon sun, if hidden behind clouds, is stinging and he grimaces, lifting up a hand to block out the light.

He sweeps his eyes across the parking lot, looking for the familiar tassel of brown-black hair and his black jacket. Or other angels. In the two days that they've been here waiting out the worst of Sam's withdrawals, there's been little communication between the five. Cas has given them the cold shoulder as if that will actually help anything, and the other angels have returned the favor. Beyond a few long stares, there's been nothing.

So what on earth set them off…? Are they out here, fighting to the death? _If they hurt Cas..._

The parking lot is empty. The gas station nearby has nothing either. The road is also empty.

"Cas, where the heck did you run off to…?" Dean starts to mutter, wiping a hand across the lower half of his face. He turns to face the gas station. Maybe? He can't see very clearly through the window, but it just looks like the bored clerk from earlier.

Dean spots an edge of movement in the window. He doesn't have anywhere else _to_ go, given that the car they stole is empty, and there's no sign of a struggle or murder in the parking lot. Energy buzzing through his veins, Dean staggers toward the store on numb legs. His throat aches distantly, and he can taste blood. The dream lingers. A taunt or a promise.

Dean shoves open the little store's door, and winces at the bell that jingles loudly above him. The bored cashier from earlier looks up at him once, then returns to studying the magazine he's taken off the rack. His eyes sweep over the space. Empty.

Anxiety starts to settle in next to his heart, wiggling until there's room for it on top of his compressed lungs. _Cas. Don't be dead. I will kill you if they killed you._

He walks up to the counter, gesticulating. "Did a guy come in here by chance, about this tall, dark hair, intense eyes?" He scrambles for another identifying trait. "American? Black jacket?"

The man, in what Dean would guess is his early forties, clean shaven and wearing a black shirt, lowers the magazine to stare dully at him. "I dunno," he says with the now-familiar British clip, "not paying attention."

Dean's teeth press. Cas doesn't have a phone. Not after Bevell. He has no way to make contact with him save prayer. And that is, much to his annoyance, always one-sided. "You sure? The only thing you do all day is stare at people. And even that's limited. Did anyone else come in here at all today?"

The guy lowers the magazine further, leaning forward a fraction as if Dean has actually caught his skittering interest. "Listen man, it's all kind of a blur. If you give me some incentive…"

Money.

He wants money.

That's nice. Dean's best friend could be stabbed in an alley somewhere and dying, and this guy is concerned with filling his freakin' pockets. Scowling at him and wishing desperately that he'd thought to grab his colt, Dean yanks out his wallet with annoyance and slaps a twenty on the countertop. He has pounds in his wallet from having to pay for the motel earlier, but it's not like he's going to make this easy for the guy. "There. Amnesia gone?"

The man reaches out to slide it toward him, looking marginally more cheerful. "Strange thing, that..."

A pale hand grabs the other end of the dollar. In order to prevent tearing it, the man releases his hold with a sharp, "hey!" Both he and Dean stop to look up at the figure. Pale, dark hair, lips bloodless and eyes bloodshot, stands Cas. The relief that washes through him nearly sends Dean to his knees. He closes his eyes and exhales deeply, reaching out a hand to grab the seraph's shoulder.

The rough feeling of his jacket across the angel's shoulders lacks the familiarity of the trench coat, but he doesn't really care.

_He's not dead. The angels didn't drag him out somewhere to stab him while I slept._

Cas's eyes are heavy lidded, and hold more emotion in a single, connected glance than any word would have. "You're already very poor, Dean. You need this." He pulls the dollar bill away from the employee, and folds it in half before slipping it back into Dean's wallet, still held outstretched in his hand.

The man looks disappointed. "Where on God's bloody green earth were you?" he asks of Cas. "The loo?"

Cas ignores him. "We need to talk."

_Great._

"Okay." Dean says, and turns to walk toward the door. He hears Cas walk after him, and a muttered comment from the employee before he snaps his magazine open again. The bell dings when they exit. Dean leads them out of the view line of the man's prying eyes; back to the motel's meager parking lot, then turns to face the angel.

Cas stops, wrapping his arms around his chest. He looks gray, Dean thinks, and feels a surge of...something at that. Anger at the angels, himself. Grief that he doesn't know what to do to help. Dread for the same reason. "Can we sit down?" Cas asks quietly. "I don't feel like standing."

"Yeah. Yeah," Dean says automatically at first, then again when he means it. The earth around them is wet, but Dean sits on the cracking sidewalk anyway. Cas sinks down next to him, pulling the jacket around himself as if cold. But angels don't feel temperature. Not in the way that Cas is suggesting, anyway. "Where were you?"

Cas frowns. "I wandered. I fell asleep. I'd meant to return before you woke up."

"Are you okay?" Dean asks, looking him over with a critical eye, but finding nothing obvious or bleeding. "They didn't hurt you?"

Cas shakes his head once. "No. They wanted to know how to get to heaven. Sam's…" he trails off, and his eyes jump away from Dean. "They weren't ready to, I don't think. The Men of Letters are still out there, Dean."

Dean stares at him. How, he wonders, can Cas still care about them at all? After what they said to him? "I know." Dean sighs. _And I don't know what to do about it._ "They had to put us to sleep to leave?"

Something dark flickers on the edge of Cas's eyes. "It was Ezekial's suggestion. He wanted to leave, and it seemed to be the easiest path with no resistance."

Dean bites on the end of his tongue to stop himself from snapping, _and you just went along with it, knowing how much I hate it when you guys do that?_ "That was nice of him. He knows we would have just let him out the front door, doesn't he?"

Cas looks at him for a long moment. "No, Dean. He doesn't. Ezekiel rarely spent long periods of time with humans, and these last years have been filled with things you can't imagine being done to him and his siblings. He has little trust for humans, and even less for Sam. His presence was…" Cas stops sharply, as if he bit his tongue.

Dean's stomach curls with discomfort at that. Humans are, he knows, not exactly creatures of comfort for angels. At least not hunters. Not anymore. And his hands are not exactly clean of the reason behind that paranoia. But the thought of saying that to Cas makes him want to be sick. Contemplating what the angel's reaction would be is worse.

"What about Sam?" Dean asks, suddenly processing those words.

Cas sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. It's a gesture that seems so out of place on him that it takes Dean a second to process it. "The demon blood. It...bothers them. They left to protect themselves."

Dean's stomach sinks a little. He can't feel his toes. He clasps his hands together and rubs his fingers over his knuckles, doing his best to leave his mind utterly blank. "They can sense it?"

"Smell it," Cas corrects. "It's a scent I've gotten used to."

Well that's just...awesome. Not a question he ever wanted an answer to because he didn't know he _needed_ to ask the question. Honestly, he'd always just kind of assumed that Sam wasn't...that it wasn't that obvious. But the first thing that Cas said to Sam was " _the boy with the demon blood",_ and it's not like Cas has made an attempt to hide the fact that he's aware.

And despite how his thoughts are spinning, all Dean can get out is, "Oh."

Sam.

He should check on Sam. Garth might still be sleeping, and if Sam's awake, he'll be in pain. Not grit-your-teeth-and-bear it, but screeching and writhing agony. Cas will need to put him back to sleep. ( _Dean was relieved, because he didn't want to pin Sam down to the bed and hear him scream for hours again.)_

Cas gives him a side-eyed glance. He looks tired. Dean feels tired. "I just...wanted to tell you that the angels had left. That's all. I'm sorry if I've offended you."

Dean realizes that he's making an unhappy face, not quite a scowl, but close enough to count as one. He smooths out his expression instantly. "Cas, I'm not angry, it's just…" he blows out a breath. ( _You've been here awhile.)_ "Took a second to process. I can't believe they just...left."

They'd seemed so intent on staying before.

Cas's lips twist, but he doesn't say anything.

Dean frowns, licking his lips in thought. His hands shift slightly as he debates how to ask the question that he wants to. "Did they, um, check on your wings at all before, or…?"

Cas stiffens. His shoulders drawing tight, hands clenching, eyes squinting with displeasure. He looks up, glancing into the distance before saying lowly, "No. I didn't ask. They didn't offer."

That was...great. Dean doesn't know crap about wing maintenance. What if something happens, where he needs more help than Dean can give, and he doesn't get it? Looking at those gashes, and the blood…

The blood.

Dean closes his eyes, repressing a shudder. He breathes out slowly and turns to Cas, preparing to say something, offer some sort of reassurance, but he's interrupted before he can get a single syllable out by the sound of a loud _smack_ behind them, like a body smashing against something solid.

He thinks he hears Garth cry out, but it's drowned in the sound of Sam screaming.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Exhaustion
> 
> Next Chapter: Feb 23


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Self worth issues.

* * *

For a moment, Dean just stands there in the doorway, staring. The crash of the door echoes in his ears, but he can't get himself to register the sound as anything but noiseless because his lungs are compressing and it feels like something barbed is being yanked up his esophagus.

Garth is struggling up to his feet, pressing a hand against the wall for support. His eyes are blown wide, lungs struggling for breath. Dean can't say that his are in a better state.

_What the…?_

Every spare piece of mindless accessory to the room is floating. Hovering. As if suspended by strings in an effort to impress an audience. But there's no strings. And no audience. His eyes slide from Bevell's hovering MacBook to Sam, who is sitting upright in the bed, panting. His hands are wrapped around his wheezing chest as if he's cold, and the trembles do nothing to dissuade that.

Dean can't _move._ He remembers Sam telling him about moving some sort of wardrobe with TK after that Millier kid planned to ventilate him, but has little memory of any other form of telekinesis being presented afterward. Maybe it's hell dulling everything, maybe it's denial. But this isn't...this was _over._ After Azazel.

They were both _sure_. _(Maybe, maybe, maybe…)_

Dean must make some sort of sound, maybe an expulsion of air or a grunt, because Sam's eyes settle on him and vague recognition seems to set in. Almost at once, his body loses tension, and the fog in his eyes clears a little. Everything drops immediately, smacking against the floor or various pieces of furniture with force and noise.

Dean flinches. He blinks, eyes wide and breath skittering out from him in a whoosh of air. Sam stares at him, and Dean stares back, unsure what to do. Or say. Or _do._

Cas stands behind him, equally quiet, and though Dean knows he needs to put _something_ into the silence _—_ his lips hover around several cusses _—_ but no sound escapes. Sam's eyes pull away, fingers curling in, jaw jutting. Dean realizes his body is rigid.

"Uugh," Garth groans from the floor, and shoves up onto one elbow, holding at his head with his other. He shakes it roughly once, blinking rapidly as though he's trying to merge several images together. Dean stands there. Garth wipes hair from his face and sits up a little better, wincing as he comes across a sore spot. His fingers pull back red.

Dean should help him get up.

He just stands there.

Cas finally slips past him into the room, brushing Dean's shoulder as if attempting to place him back into reality. It doesn't work. The seraph sits on his haunches in front of the werewolf and tilts his head, "Do you need assistance?"

"No," Garth says, and shoves up a fraction further. "Nothin' that won't heal with time. 'Sides, got my own healing factor now." He pats Cas's arm and clambers to his feet, looking around the room. He catches Dean's gaze and gives a minute shake of his head. Dean can't fathom what it's for.

Dean had to explain about the demon blood to Garth, but he was clipped and succinct about it. Sam could tell him more if he wanted (he won't), but Dean's not going to go blabbering his brother's secrets off into the wild.

But Dean didn't think to tell Garth that Sam can throw things across the room with his mind. _Why would he?_

Silence stretches over them, through them, above them. Hovering. Laughing. Taunting them to try and break it, to see what will happen when they do. Dean can't. It's not that he's disgusted (he doesn't think, _please don't let him be,_ he can't process anything) it's just. This. He doesn't…has Sam been _aware_ of this?

"That comes with a kick," Garth finally says. Dean's gaze flicks to him. Garth rolls his shoulders and steps the length of distance between himself and Sam. Sam draws back from him, but Garth rests a hand on his shoulder anyway, "You alrigh', partner?"

"I _—_ I didn't…" Sam looks away. "Sorry...sorry."

"Not a problem." Garth says with more jovial than Dean privately thinks is appropriate. "Happens all the time. I _am_ a hunter, Sam."

Sam shakes his head, still refusing to meet the wolf's eyes. Dean feels a frown beginning to crease the edges of his lips. Worry. He exhales deeply, letting his muscles relax. This is fine. He can handle this. It wasn't expected, but it's fine. It is. He's certain. He can do this. He can.

Dean moves. He closes the door quietly, letting his hand linger around the knob for a second, then turns back around to face them. They're all staring. Dean releases his lower lip and refuses to let his gaze skirt the way he wants it to. "You, uh, okay?" he finally asks, directing the question toward his sibling.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Cas relax a fraction, almost as if he was expecting something more violent. Dean's teeth grit together, and he's not sure if this feeling is embarrassment or bitterness.

Sam doesn't look at him, neck muscles rigid. Dean waits for him to say something, but he doesn't. Taking the initiative, because he _has_ to, though God alone knows how much he'd love to shove it onto someone else, Dean silently crosses the room, passing Garth, and sits on the edge of the mattress.

Sam's clenched hands grip tighter.

Dean lifts out a hand, having to flex it once to stop any anxiety from showing, and rests it against Sam's forehead, checking the fever. His skin is still painfully warm against Dean's palm, and his eyes narrow a fraction. So this might just be the demon blood. Maybe. But. _I don't know._

"Your fever hasn't really gone down, you want to go back to sleep or should we find something for the pain _—_?"

Sam shoves his hand away sharply, pushing into a crumpled seated position in one movement. "Stop. I'm not a child, Dean. I know you want to yell at me, so can we just get this over with?"

This is the most lucidity Dean's seen from him in two days. His mouth pulls tight. He doesn't know if he wants to yell, or shout or whatever Sam's expecting of him because he feels so emotionally drained and defeated that the thought of continuing this conversation makes some part of him desire to recoil.

_I can do this._

Dean releases a breath of air, pulling his hands back to his lap. "It's just the demon blood, Sam."

"No, it's not." Sam's hazel eyes finally lift to connect with his, and there's a rawness there that Dean withdraws a fraction from. His eyes slide toward Cas. "I had a vision before I took any."

 _What?_ "What?"

He hasn't had a vision in almost _ten years._ Not to Dean's knowledge. Sam breathes in shakily, looking away, closing his eyes. Shame. He's ashamed. Dean's mouth is dry. He doesn't know what to say to help, and bites on _are you sure?_ "What do you mean you had a vision? Sam, it's been more than nine _years_."

"You think I don't know that?" Sam retorts, scoffing lightly. He slumps against the headboard without any attempts to be subtle, arms wrapping around himself. If he hadn't been exhausted, Dean would have bet good money he'd draw his legs up to his chest.

"I thought after Yellow Eyes…"

"Me too."

There was the Lucifer trying to get Sam into the Cage debacle a few months ago, but Dean doesn't know if that counts. It was the same but different.

"You," Dean says, but doesn't have anything to add to that, and just lets it hang. He pulls his gaze down, realizing belatedly that his leg is jumping. He doesn't make any conscious effort to stop it. Sam is...what? Sam had a vision before Lucifer dunked his head in demon blood. And. _What?_ Vision. Vision's are about people. Dean doesn't want to ask. "Did the Men of Letters do something to...I don't know, cause a vision?" He hates to add, but does anyway, "Lucifer?"

Sam's eyes again land on where Dean knows Cas is standing behind him. He wishes someone else would say something, but Garth and Cas seem perfectly content to watch them muddle this out. "No. No, I don't think so." Sam rubs at his left hand's palm with his thumb.

Dean nods, rubbing a hand over his face. Okay. Awesome. Sam's _Shining_ is making a reappearance. Because that's exactly what Sam needs on top of everything else right now. Thank you, universe. It couldn't have chosen a better time for it. Like, maybe never?

Sam releases a soft sound. "Just say it."

Dean looks up at him, honestly confused. "Say what, Sam?"

Sam nods a little to himself, as if some bizarre part of himself is finding this funny or confirming a hypothesis. "That I'm a freak. There's something wrong with me, inherently _wrong_. I know that you're thinking it, so will you just _—_ "

"What? Are you insane? Sam, I'm not _—_ " maybe somewhere. But far, far away from his conscious brain. He _has_ had a third of Sam's life to contemplate this. Sam had _—_ _has_ visions. Sure. That happens. He hates this. This is not the way he wanted to have this conversation.

"You said that you'd hunt me, what else am I supposed to think?" Sam explodes. Several items in the room roll a few feet or skirt forward a few inches. Sam's mouth clamps shut and he recedes into himself.

This is happening. It. _Oh man._

Sam's words register with his frantic mind and Dean flinches back. He feels his face drain of color. The words have haunted him ever since he said them. But that was after hell, and Dean just wasn't _functioning_ and. That's not an excuse. He didn't. His eyes close and he breathes out, lips pushed together, swallowing hard when his eyes unexpectedly burn.

He opens his mouth, but he can't find anything to say that's not going to make this worse. Because he doesn't know what's going to make it better.

"Alright," Garth says firmly, and Dean opens his eyes to look at him. The wolf shoves the lamp off of the bedside table, ignoring Sam's flinch and Dean's twitch as he leans up against it, arms crossed over his chest. Cas moves closer, Dean can feel the aura of his grace getting more powerful. "Alright. Look. What the _heck_ is going on?"

Dean's eyebrows draw together.

"What?"

It takes him a second to realize that the word came from Cas, not him.

Garth sighs deeply, gaze rounding the room once. He flicks out a finger towards Cas, then him, then Sam, "You just got your feathers chopped off, you had a half dozen hunters try to kill you, and he's having visions. Explain this to me."

Dean's mouth works around several bitter replies, but the humor is instinct. Tension. _He has to make it funny._ "Bad luck?"

Garth's mouth doesn't twitch.

Cas's hand on his left shoulder nearly makes his heart exit through his throat with how high it jumps. He twists around to look back at the angel, whose otherworldly blue eyes stare back at him hard. "You were almost killed by hunters? _When?"_ There's a hard bite to the tone that has Dean shying away from him.

"I _—_ uh," Dean rubs at his wrists, biting hard on the inside of his lip.

Sam's eyes widen a fraction, as if having just connected to something together. Dean pulls his gaze down to his lap. "Dean."

"It wasn't that big of a deal. Wasn't comfortable, but I've had worse."

"You've been to hell," Sam says tonelessly.

Dean shrugs a fraction, even as he pushes hard against his knee like it will stop it from jumping. He breathes out deeply, emptying his lungs from bottom up. "Exactly. Kind of hard to top that."

"That's what happened to your wrists," Cas says, and his hand, which Dean hadn't realized was still there, tightens over his collarbone. Dean tries not to flinch. "Dean, _what happened?"_

Dean shakes his head, "It's not important. Can we just…" _Talk about something else. Anything else?_ Dean wordlessly begs of them.

"Had him suspended by his wrists when I got there," Garth offers, "guess they were going for slow and agonizing death. Nothing quite like slow suffocation."

_I know. Believe me, I know._

Sam breathes out a swear, and Dean glances up at him. " _That's_ what that…" he covers his face with his palms for a moment, steepling his fingers over his nose. "I felt that. You. You were _dying_ and then you prayed and Cas…"

_Son of a—_

_Stop._

Cas's grace pushes against his senses, making every muscle in his body tense up as he senses rage there. For all it has seemed different the last few days, Cas isn't human. And this is just a firm reminder of that. His body pulls away as much as it can. Cas lets go of him, and Dean sucks in a breath like he hasn't breathed in years.

His hands are trembling and he clenches them closed, then rubs them against his knees. "Look. I didn't die. It was fine, okay?"

Sam's expression flickers with deep frustration and some annoyance. He drops his hands from his face. "When were you going to mention this?"

_Ha._

Dean stares at him. "You're kidding, right? We haven't really had time to sit down the last couple of days and discuss everything that's happened the last month. It's fine. We don't need to keep talking _—_ what do you mean you _felt_ it?" Dean interrupts himself mid-word, brain working sluggishly through Sam's earlier revelations.

Sam expels in a rush. "Just. While we were, uh, there. I felt you...dying, I guess? It hasn't...It's not the firm time, either."

Dean stares at him.

_What?_

Garth nods, as if this makes sense, and Cas finally takes a seat on the bed across from Sam's. The small distance between Dean and the suffocation of the seraph's grace is a relief. Dean looks up at Garth with incredulity.

Garth glances between the two of them, then his expression flattens out and he sighs deeply. "You mean to tell me that Sam's psychic and neither one of you bothered to learn what that meant?" he asks.

Dean shares a look with his sibling. "We...weren't really aware you _could._ All the books we poured through weren't very helpful." Dean says. There was more in the Men of Letters Bunker, but beyond seeing Sam flipping through them on occasion, Dean hadn't done much else with them. "We just thought that it had to do with the demon that killed our parents."

Cas's expression clears abruptly. "Oh," he says softly.

Oh.

That's all he's got. That's...great. Awesome.

Sam shifts a fraction, hand coming up to his stomach as his lips twist in a grimace. "What...what are...does this _not_ have to do with Yellow Eyes? I thought that the demon blood just kind of…tainted me."

"No." Cas says. Dean turns his attention to him. Cas blows out a deep breath, rubbing at his brow with his fingers for a moment. "Azazel was tracking children who were already given the gift. Why do you think he was so specific with his choices? He gave you the demon blood to both repress your powers until you reached adulthood and give you a connection directly to him. His agenda had little to do with the apocalypse. Heaven only let him carry his plans forward because it was convenient."

"Wait." Dean says, questions he doesn't even know how to form shaking inside of him, "Azazel _wasn't_ working for you guys to get us...to the proper place for armageddon?" He'd always thought with Sam's death and the deal...

"No." Cas says, sitting back. His head tips a fraction. "Did no one explain this to either of you?"

Dean glances at Sam, but his brother looks just as lost as he feels. Cas shakes his head, looking somewhat annoyed. Whether or not it's for himself or something else is beyond Dean. "Had Azazel not interfered, heaven likely would have found some way to kill Sam to make you deal anyway."

They would've...

And Dean would have had...

Dean's stomach turns over with nausea, thinking of Cold Oak. He looks at his younger brother, mouth slipping open slightly. The weight of his sibling collapsing against him, Sam's glance toward the right, the blood dripping from his mouth, the blood soaking his back. Carry him to that house. Staring at his corpse. That desperation. The drive.

He breathes out. There were angels _here._ Angels would have killed his brother just to make him sell his soul.

"Like I said, Azazel's interference was convenient." Cas says quietly. Garth shifts against the bedside table.

There's a stretch of silence that feels like an age before Sam asks, "I was born psychic? Yellow Eyes picked the Devil's vessel on _accident?"_

"As far as I am aware, yes." Cas confirms. "Michael may have had some interference, but I was always a foot soldier to them. They never told me anything." The last sentence is bitter. The seraph's yes cloud, and his hands clasp together.

"Oh," Dean intones.

Garth huffs lightly. He glances at Cas, as if waiting to see if the angel is going to say anything further, and when he doesn't, returns his gaze to Sam. "What you were doing, to feel Dean like that, I've heard it referred to as imprinting. You attach your consciousness to another person's. It's…" Garth blows out a raspberry, clearly looking for the right words, "it's not telepathy. Not exactly. You...sort of bond yourself and share experiences, like severe pain or death. There's the potential on Sam's part to actually cast his injuries _onto_ you, Dean."

Sam's placid face drains of any color it had gained.

Dean's stomach clenches.

"Sam's aware of the state of your life at all times as well. None of this was really conscious...at least, I don't think so given Sam's level of inexperience. Psychics will just attach themselves onto anyone, often as a way of seeking safety." Garth explains. When Dean looks at Cas, the seraph is nodding.

That…

He doesn't.

_What?_

_"_ Where on earth did you learn any of this?" Sam asks, fingers shifting. Maybe clenching, but Dean doesn't catch the movement in time to see.

Garth shrugs, but the hard edge of his face belies his nonchalance. "Psychics were popping up everywhere in '06 and '07. You learned and evolved or you got left in the dust."

Sam's teeth set. Dean averts his gaze.

In what is obviously an effort to avoid the topic, Sam says carefully, "How would I know if I...how would I know if I imprinted on someone?"

Garth glances at Dean. "Feeling their death would be a good indicator. Sometimes you'll know when they're in pain. Generally it's just this...feeling, from what I've heard it described. It just lingers in the back of your both your minds. It's not painful or anything, just there."

Dean looks at his brother. Sam meets his eyes. They don't say anything, but wordless understanding seems to pass between them. Sam imprinted himself on Dean. And. That's...it's _weird,_ but it makes sense. On some level. And maybe this is selfish, but some part of Dean is relieved that Sam can still look at him and _see_ that: safety.

Cas rubs his thumb over his knuckles before sighing to himself and saying, "You've done the same to me. But unlike Dean, I know how to push you out."

Has Cas done that before? If so, _when?_ Why would he not mention that Sam is suddenly clinging to him mentally?

Sam slumps a fraction, pinching the bridge of his nose. Exhaustion is starting to stretch over every part of his skin. "Why didn't you tell me? I don't...I don't want to force this on either of you. I can't believe that I... How do I turn it off?"

Cas shrugs, looking at Garth. "Talk to another psychic, I imagine." Dean's lips tighten. What? Missouri? He hasn't spoken with her in years. But it's not like they can actually find any that aren't utter crap from the phonebook or a Google search.

"Wait…" Sam's brow draws together, his hand fisting in the shirt he's wearing. He's in pain, but clearly wants to get this out. "I...had a vision, about...about when they took your wings. Was this because of this...thing?"

 _Oh man, he_ saw _that?_ Dean only saw pictures of the blood, and that video, but he can't imagine...

Familiar anger for Cas's situation spikes in him, and his lips tighten. He wants to shake his fists up at the sky and wail _it's not fair_ like a child. Because Sam shouldn't have had to have seen that, because _Cas never should have been in that situation in the first place._ If Dean had been faster, put two and two together quicker, then Cas wouldn't have had to be here. Cas would be as whole as he ever is these days.

Cas's expression flattens out. He covers his face with his hands for a moment, utterly rigid. When he does speak, his voice is low and he won't meet their eyes. "Yes."

No addition, no explanation, the words are crypt and almost cold.

"Cas?" Dean prompts.

Cas shakes his head, looking at the floor. He doesn't say anything for long moments. "I was in too much pain to block you from witnessing it. I know you felt Metatron taking my grace, because you tried to help me. This was..." Cas clasps his hands together, eyes going to the side, but he's without words. With how hunched he is, Dean would almost guess that he's embarrassed.

Dean rubs at the lower half of his face, looking between the two. They need to talk about this. But he doesn't even know where to start.

"I'm sorry." Garth says quietly. Their eyes lift to him. "About your wings, Castiel, and that you had to see it happen, Sam. Neither of you deserved that."

And, just like that, any willingness his brother or the seraph had to tentatively continue this conversation forward dies. Cas shifts enough that he's not facing them, and Sam's eyes gain a guarded edge. Garth may be their companion, but he's not family. Dean understands this intellectually, but he wants to grab both the angel and Sam and _rattle them_ until they start speaking.

Sam's mouth tightens, hand fisting in the blanket, "But why _now?_ Why would it start again _now?"_

Nice. Sam's just jumping onto topics Dean doubts he wants to talk about in an effort to avoid others he wants to less today.

"My best guess? Stress." Garth suggests. "I know a coupla psychics. If they weren't born from day one with the power, it was a stresser that activated it in them."

Like your girlfriend being burned alive on the ceiling. Or being kidnapped, dragged overseas, and tortured.

Stressers. Yeah. Just a little.

Sam starts listing, and Cas looks about ready to faceplant. Dean releases air in a gush, palming his face before getting up to his feet. "Alright, interrogation over. You both need sleep before you collapse. Garth and I can keep watch for a little bit." Speaking of, he looks at his younger brother, "Sammy, you feeling up for a plane overseas?"

Sam squints at him as if he's speaking a different language he has to translate. "You want to go by plane?"

_No._

"Yeah. Fastest way to get out of England. I don't know about you guys, but I am ready to go home."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Disorientation
> 
> Next chap: Feb 24


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence, gore.
> 
> Beta'd by AngelFishOfTheLord

* * *

Sam doesn't fall asleep for a while, both from pain and his racing thoughts. He stares up at the ceiling, the quilt tucked over him in a way he's too tired to change, and does little else. His head is heavy. Eventually, he hears Cas's breathing evening out. His own doesn't. He stares at the wall across from him, listening to Dean and Garth move around the room quietly. Dean goes out to the car, then returns, Garth goes into the bathroom to call Bess.

Sam wraps a hand around his stomach and wishes that someone would just slice it open and get the sensation of it tearing itself apart over with. Or validated with life. His vision is a dim, hazy red at the edges, and Sam closes his eyes. His teeth press together tight enough his temples begin to ache. He scrambles for something else to think about beyond the pain.

His brain, as expected, runs endless circles with the conversation they just had. Garth's sincerity and Cas's confusion. Psychic. He was _born_ this way. It wasn't something that Yellow Eyes gave to him. Not completely. He wishes it was. What he would give to have it be. For Dean to have shot the Demon and then that would have been that. No more visions, no more telekinesis, no _Shining._

_I don't want this. I don't want this. I don't—_

He was born like this. No alteration. No choice. Birth, life, death.

A stab of pain behind his eyes makes him wince and he pushes a hand against his forehead. The pressure helps some, but not enough to offer any relief. His limbs are cramping, and Sam is almost tempted to ask Dean to find him something cold to put on his forehead. But he doesn't ask. Stays quiet and hissing between his teeth though he can feel his sibling's gaze on him. His hand tightens on his shirt above his stomach. Sam opens his eyes, and looks up at the white popcorn ceiling.

The after image of Jess's burning body blinks back at him.

_Why Sam?_

_At least tell me where you're going._

He still has the last voicemail she left him. He uploaded onto a laptop before it could be lost to whatever monster of the week they were hunting. She made him cookies. Sam has barely managed to choke down chocolate in eleven years.

Jess...

He had a vision about Jess. Did he imprint himself on her, too? Was it more than just the Demon taunting him? She went up in flames on the ceiling, and Sam walked away. If he'd known...maybe if he hadn't been...if he _had_ imprinted himself, did he make it worse?

He felt Dean die when Lilith let the hounds on his sibling. The burning, pulsing ache throbbing over his stomach and heated there like it would char him from the inside out. The _pain..._ and again when the Leviathans blew up and took Dean with them to Purgatory. And after Metatron stabbed him.

He'd known when Dean nearly died on a hunt at Stanford. He panicked when Dean got sent to the group home when he was twelve, but he hadn't really thought that Dean was _dead._ He's been doing this to Dean since he was a child. He didn't give his brother a choice on whether or not he _wanted_ it, and it sickens him.

All his life he just thought it was intuition. The bond of having raised each other.

Then along comes Cas, and Sam does the _same thing?_ He has no memory of deciding this. He can't remember having the same effect until the Trials, when he was lying against the car when Dean was hovering over him and having the distinct impression that Cas was _dying._ Then the angels were falling, and Gadreel and…

_I have done this to them for years and I didn't even know._

How does he shut it off? How does he give them that _choice_ on whether or not they want his subconscious to cling to them? He hates this. He _hates_ this. If he had learned from a young age what he was, if he'd been _taught,_ then this wouldn't have happened. _How do I turn it off, how do I turn it off, how do I—?_

And Sam realizes with a sick, hollow dread, that the one person that would know his mind better than he does, the one person that might know how to turn it off _right now_ is Lucifer. And he's almost desperate enough to ask.

Sam rolls over, and squeezes his eyes shut.

000o000

Twenty-seven hours later, after Cas no longer feels like death and Sam no longer looks the part, they exit the motel. Dean forces fluids and food onto both of them, and looks somewhat more put together. He shaved, which Sam considers a good sign.

Having spent the majority of these last hours asleep, Sam crawls into the back of the newly stolen car and leans his head against the glass, relieved at the pressure. Withdrawals have lessened to a dull throb across his entire body and a migraine, neither of which is pleasant, but he can almost walk in a straight line now.

Cas is sitting across from him, Dean behind the wheel and Garth using his phone to navigate them to the airport. Anything he focuses on for too hard blurs like liquid seeping together, and while Sam is certain Cas could figure out how to use Google Maps, it was just easier to delegate that job to the werewolf.

The car smells strange, like cigarettes and some form of fast food. Maybe burgers? Or curly fries? Inhaling too deeply makes him want to throw up, but not breathing enough makes him dizzy. So he just sits in miserable silence with his eyes closed and pleads with anything listening to just let them get back to the Bunker in one piece so he can crawl onto his bed and sleep for the rest of this week and well into the next one.

Dean and Garth start some sort of debate on whether or not driving on the left hand side of the road is actually better than America's familiar right hand side, but Sam can tell that his brother's contribution is half-hearted. Exhaustion sits with them all like a fifth passenger.

Dean eventually parks the car and clambers out, and Sam follows. He's shaky on his feet at best, and Dean's hand snakes out to grab his arm to steady him. His skin rolls beneath any contact, but he's grateful that he didn't fall flat on his face. Garth and Cas stand next to each other, waiting for Sam to get his bearings.

He knows that the only reason they waited to return to the States was—mostly—because of him, and Sam doesn't want to force them to stay on this God forsaken continent any longer than they have to. He nods to his brother's quiet look of inquiry and takes a step forward. The world blurs, images merging into threes, and his migraine reminds him firmly that the last thing it wants to do is move.

Sam grits his teeth and pushes forward, breathing in sharply.

He's had worse. He has. His intestines aren't slowly being pulled from his stomach.

Another few feet.

Or chains shoved through his body while he's suspended.

The building is getting closer. Push on. _Push on._

Or his soul being—

Sam grips at Dean sharply when he stumbles, nearly taking them both down before his sibling steadies him. He pants heavily, limbs shaking, and Dean says something to him, but Sam has no idea what. Airports are loud. He'd almost forgotten how loud. A bunch of humans stuffed into a large space always echoes, but the sounds feel like they're rattling through his skull and shaking something loose.

"—am! Hey, look at me!" Dean presses a hand against the side of his neck and Sam blinks sluggishly up at him. "Are you good for this?"

Sam takes a second to swallow along his dry throat, another to get his feet beneath him. He has to put effort into remembering how to speak. "Yeah. Yeah, no. I'm fine. We can keep going."

"Sam," Cas sighs, helping Dean steady him.

"I just want to go home. Please. Let's just...It's just a headache." Sam says, biting sharply on his lower lip when he realizes how close to begging his tone is. Part of him doesn't care. _I want off of this continent. I want to go back to Kansas. Any distance between me and Lucifer. Anything._

Dean and Cas share another one of those looks Sam's too exhausted to interpret.

Dean helps haul him upright. "Okay. But you want to bail before we get on the plane and we will. Any of you." Dean stares pointely at Cas, then glances toward Garth.

 _None of us are going to say anything. We all know that._ Sam takes a few small steps toward the glass doors, "Maybe we should have just called Crowley." He mutters, unsure if he's joking or not. They're going to think he's drunk and kick him out of the airport anyway.

"We can't. You'll probably have a heart attack from the strain, and we don't know if Crowley can take Cas." Dean reminds him patiently. He straightens out. Sam grits his teeth and forces himself to stop bowing forward as much.

They enter the large, ugly building. It smells like the inside of suitcases, rubber, and sweat. The sound makes him wince, but he swallows down further nausea. Dean lets him go with a pointed look, and Sam gives him a grimace in response for reassurance.

Cas tightens up at all the unfamiliar faces, and Garth looks a little pinched, but there's no further indication that they're uncomfortable or in pain.

They make their way forward toward the desk. Sam wraps his arms around his stomach, trying to quell a low throb. It took a week last time before he felt some resemblance toward normal. It's barely been four days. This is going to be wonderful. _It's just a few hours,_ he reminds himself, _a few hours of waiting here, then they'll be closer to the Bunker. Home._

(Bevell was _in_ the Bunker. Everything started there. How is it supposed to be any safer than where they are right now?)

Someone brushes up against Cas's shoulder and the seraph slips closer to Sam, as if he can hide behind him. And Sam wishes he could offer any sort of assistance or _let him,_ but he can barely hold himself upright, let alone offer protection.

They get closer to the desk. Sam wonders what Dean plans to do about passports. Or identification. He didn't ask, a little busy sleeping and trying not to throw up. Sam grits his teeth together and decides firmly that he doesn't care.

As long as it gets them out of here, he has little resistance to any idea.

The line slides forward. The world blurs, a hand smearing drying paint. Sam breathes out slowly. Dean's hands fidget. Cas keeps shoving the sleeves off of his hands. Garth squints at everything, like he wants to clamp his hands over his ears.

Another step.

There's this whistling _thwip,_ different from the other noises of the airport. On a normal day, Sam doubts he would have noticed it. But with the demon blood still fighting with him, and his migraine, any sound above the chatter might as well have been an explosion. Sam swings his head toward the left, confusion washing through him. _What the—?_ The world spins at the abrupt movement, his equilibrium threatening to topple, and Dean lets out a sharp sound of pain.

Sam turns back toward his sibling, eyes widening as he sees Dean gripping his right shoulder, knocked to his knees. Blood is welling on his gray shirt, spilling down his back. _Deveveo._ He's injured? Why didn't he mention that he's—

_Twhip._

_Augh!_

A biting pain so hot it's almost cold, slams into him beneath his collarbone. It tears through him, flesh, muscle and rib bone. There's no exit. Sam staggers forward from the force, blind with blurring pain and disorientation. He lands hard on his knees beside his sibling, hand going to his side, panting.

Bullet.

That was a bullet. What the—?

He and Dean have a wild, frantic moment to share a look of utter bewilderment before the screaming starts. _Twhip, twhip, twhip._ Sam sees several more bullets impact nearby passerby, sending them careening toward the floor with exclamations of agony. Blood splits across them and the ground.

Sam blinks through hazing vision, trying to find the source of the gunshots.

Sniper.

They need to move. Cover. They need—

Cas is swearing viciously, leaning over the both of them, his face a sharp edge among the blurs of everything else. His eyes are almost glowing. The sensation of his grace, angry, hot and frustrated, slams into Sam and he inhales sharply at the feeling. Cas's hand presses on his shoulder and he inhales.

The pain seems to ground him, filtering in sound rather than muting it. He breathes out and hears everything at once.

Garth shouts loudly. The airport explodes into chaos. People start scrambling for the exits, shouting and screaming picking up speed. Sam sees a security officer pass through the rapidly moving crowd. He hears children crying.

There's a second impact in his leg, and Sam chokes, grabbing for it. The burn whispers up through him, vicious and unrelenting. Garth lands crumpled beside them, blood welling from several bullet wounds to his back. Sam exhales raggedly, mouth twisted around the werewolf's name. _What is happening?!_

"Sam!" Dean shouts, and hands grab at him. Sam turns his head to look back at his sibling. Cas is supporting him, eyes rapidly scanning their surroundings. "Sam, are you...you're bleeding." His hand presses just beneath Sam's ribs.

Sam can't get himself to say anything for several long moments, focused on breathing. It smells like blood everywhere. "Pot...kettle…" he mumbles. Something wet and iron spills down his lips. "Dean…"

_Twhip, twhip, twhip._

No, wait—

Dean's eyes, wide and bloodshot, snap up. His mouth opens in a wordless screech of pain, and he chokes. His hand draws away from Sam's stomach to push against his own. There's more blood, spilling everywhere. Sam can't breathe. He's holding his brother's broken body after the hellhounds cut him open deep enough Sam could see his spinal column, he's clutching Dean to his chest after Metatron stabbed him—

The burn, sharp and aching, pushing up from inside of him. The _imprint._

"—no, no—" Sam finds himself saying, scrambling toward his brother. His hands jump on his brother's chest, dislodging the shirt now sticking to his skin from blood. Dean chokes, gasping, panting, wet, _dying._ And Sam can _feel it._

"Dean, don't—"

_What is going on? Who is doing this? WHY?_

His brother tries for a weak smile, his lips blood stained, eyes panicked before they empty. Sam's shaking hands push down, as if there's anything that can be done. People careen past them, but no one comes to _help._ They need police. Or an ambulance. Or _someone to stop his brother from dying._ Cas's lukewarm hands push down on top of his own, breathing heavy and looking both disgusted and terrified.

Their eyes meet, "Sam—Sam, we have to—"

_Twhip—_

The sound comes from behind them, and Sam manages to catch a glint of the sniper's gun from the corner of his eye. At Cas. He doesn't think. He reacts. Sam bodily shoves the seraph out of the way, toppling forward into the trajectory of the bullet instead. It slams into his chest. Somewhere near his heart.

_God...God...please..._

The agony blinds him, and he holds himself there, not breathing, not moving, not _anything._ His body curls up in reaction and Sam finds himself clawing desperately at the bullet's entrance, as if he can physically remove it from his body. It takes him a moment to realize he's trying to scream, but choking on blood. Wet gurgling is the best he's accomplishing.

White. Pain. Nothing.

_Static, static, staaaaticcc—_

Cas's face leans over him. His clothing is tattered with bullet holes. But he's an angel. He's not going to die from a few measly gunshots. Cas is shouting at him. He's crying. Sam has a moment to acknowledge how deeply, deeply wrong that is.

Then there's nothing.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Migraine
> 
> Finale chapter Feb 25th! (No, i didn't make it through all the prompts, but I gave it an honest go.)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gore

* * *

_I can fix this._

_I will fix it._

_I have to._

Castiel holds Sam's body against his vessel, the Winchester's chin jolting hard against his shoulder. Dark hair presses against the side of his neck, the sensation so soft and comfortable it's almost painful. His weight is little in the span of things, but there is no breath pushing back against the hand he has clutched against the back of Sam's shirt. He's limp, heavy, and _gone._

"You idiot," he says hoarsely, hand trembling. He pushes it against Sam's back further, begging, pleading, for some form of life. Tears are blinding him. Blood soaks his fingers. _Father, help me!_ "You _idiot._ I—I would have been fine." He chokes on the words. "I'm an angel."

He tries to summon any reserves of grace, but finds nothing but pain and emptiness. Any with him is too focused on healing his wings and pushing the multitude of bullets from his body and closing those wounds. His grace is spread too thin to offer any outside assistance.

_No._

Dean's lifeless eyes stare up toward the ceiling, utterly void of any recognition. He's laying on his back, blood pooling beneath him. One hand is resting on his stomach, the gray shirt soaked red. Garth is face down, limbs distorted. Given time, he'll recover. The bullets weren't silver. But it doesn't matter. Because Castiel _failed._

They're dead.

His kith. His _kin._

_Father, I…_

If he doesn't restore them before their brain activity ceases completely from lack of oxygen, he can't revive them. He's not an archangel. The minutes are ticking down, and Castiel won't be ready by then.

Castiel pulls harder within himself, limbs spasming at the effort. His vision burns and his vessel strains beneath the pressure, but there's nothing. Sam stays limp against him, the bullet that he took _for Castiel_ lodged inside of his heart and corrupting it. Breaking it. And there's nothing he can do. Not _now._ Castiel buries his head against Sam's, panting, breath heavy, realizing then that he's sobbing.

And he can _hear_ it. Echoing inside of the building. Spinning around him, returning to surround him. Everyone else has left, having escaped the building. Thirty-two bodies sit around him, but he only truly cares about two.

_Please, please...this one thing I wanted for myself. This one thing. A family. Why would you keep bringing me back to fail?!_

A footfall behind him causes Castiel to still. There are other human souls here. He chokes on his sobs, burying them deep in his throat and tosses the remainder of his grief there, somewhere private where the only person who will see it is _him._ He swallows heavily, clutching Sam against him tighter. He's still warm.

"Well." The voice causes his shoulders to draw together. He sits up straight, head raising slowly. "I think that took care of almost everything, wouldn't you agree, Castiel?" A gun clicks as a bullet enters the chamber. "Just one more loose end to clean up."

Castiel's teeth set.

_How_ dare _they._

He lowers Sam's corpse to the floor with gentleness, his body rigid. His gaze slides up toward Dean's pained face. The blood leaking down the side of his mouth, more bloodsoaked than he's been since hell. Then he slowly clambers to his feet and turns around to meet the eyes of Lady Bevell.

The end of an angel sword raises up to greet him.

The side of her head is wrapped in a thick wad of gauze and she looks pale and washed out, yet still deadly furious. A dozen or so other Men of Letters stand behind her, weapons raised toward him. Castiel's gaze lifts up toward the ceiling for a moment, where he can see further guns pointing down at them from openings in the roof.

_They killed them. All of them._

Lady Bevell adjusts her grip. Calm. Calculating. She takes a step forward and rests the edge of the blade just below his chin. He waits, and she waits, and does nothing. Castiel's eyes narrow. He's played this game before.

" _What?_ " His head lowers slightly, tipping against the weapon. The rage that consumes him is as empty as it is hard. Not blinding. Not distracting. An entity all of its own, offering him power, cold and lifeless.

Lady Bevell's lips tip down a little, her eyes sliding away from him for a fraction of a second to rest on the dead civilians surrounding them. The hesitation causes his teeth to grind together. His hand snakes up to grab her forearm tight enough to snap bone cleanly between his fingers. She releases a strangled sound and the weapons raise warningly.

Castiel _laughs._

"You took _everything_ from me." He growls. _My wings. My freedom. My grace. My family._ Castiel snakes the sword from her pliant fingers and shoves it through her stomach. The wet squish of her skin breaking and the weapon intruding causes some part of him to flinch away, but she just gasps, eyes wide.

She leans toward him, lips painted red. He pulls her closer, until his lips are almost touching her ear when he hisses, "I'd take you to hell myself if I'd had the time."

Several weapons fire at him, and Castiel shoves off Lady Bevell's body and _screams_. Jimmy's voice breaks into his own, and the glass within the building snaps, crackling and bursting, seams unable to hold themselves. The shattering is deafening, and the glass raining in shards, large and small explodes across the space.

The artificial lights burst, plunging the space into shadows. The light from the cloud-covered late evening streams down toward them, but not enough to bathe the room in light any further than it was.

The Men of Letters echo his scream, dropping their weapons in favor of clamping their hands over their ears.

When he cuts himself off, Castiel doesn't wait. He grabs the blood soaked weapon from Lady Bevell and dives forward into the fray of agents. His senses narrow, focusing in on hunt, kill, _destroy._ His body takes cuts and bruises, several of the holy oil treated bullets come close to striking him, one grazing his left arm.

The blood sticks to him, on him, everywhere, when Castiel throws a man to the floor, standing over him, weapon raised and stops. He knows him. This man held him down while they slid the knife across his wings. He was _there,_ keeping him in place. A weight, a pin, _merciless._ Lucifer's vessel. The eyes are wide and somewhat frantic, but it's _him._

The man uses his wavering moment and shoves a knee harshly into Castiel's vessel's groin. The pain blinds him, so sharp it's cold, and the man shifts their weight, shoving Castiel toward the ground. Castiel's head smacks against the hard tiles and the blade slips from his fingers when the vessel slams a fist against his forearm.

Human adrenaline, as the powerful inebriation as it always is, helps him shove an elbow into the man's face and struggle to grab at the sword. The vessel man with him sharply for a moment for ownership. Castiel fails to take hold of it again.

The weapon is lifted over the man's head and Castiel's hands snap up above him to protect himself with what little shielding flesh and bone with offer. _Didn't do a thing against their knives for his wings._

"Andrews, _wait!"_

Andrews stops. The weapon is still raised over Castiel's vessel, ready to drop. And part of Castiel is tempted, so tempted, not to fight with this opening. Sam and Dean are dead. He's failed. Andrews's dark eyes lift up toward something, and Castiel wars with himself for a long, endless second before he wrestles out from beneath Andrews, taking the weapon with him.

He rolls up to his feet and bites on sudden nausea.

His body aches in every joint, bone, and muscle. But he keeps himself standing, lifting his eyes up to stare up at the origin of the voice. A man stands there, surrounded by almost twenty more, all looking somewhat frazzled and edging on panic.

And—Castiel's breath catches. Ezekiel and the others stand beside the first man, weapons at their sides. What are they _doing_ with _them?_ Have they not already suffered enough at the Men of Letters' hands...Castiel's stomach twists as a thought occurs to him. What...if they were caught after he disowned them…

Ezekial catches his eye, and Castiel winces as across angel radio, the angel says, _We have been following you, as they have. They were at the entrance with us._

The first agents lift their re-gathered weapons toward this second group.

"Andrews, what did you _do?"_ the man demands, edging closer on the broken glass. It crunches beneath his boots like snow. The weapon he's holding is trained on the human. Not _him._

Andrews gets up to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth with the front of his hand. His hand curls around the gun in a holster at his thigh. Castiel watches this with narrowed eyes, but makes no move to stop them. If they're going to take themselves out, Castiel isn't going to stop them. "What upper management wanted, Davies. Which you'd _know_ if you'd bothered to answer her calls."

Davies shakes his head, "No. _Ketch_ had charge of this mission detail, and he's brain dead in a hospital. You had no authorization to initiate this attack!"

Andrews's fingers flex. His gaze slides to Castiel. "Bevell ordered it."

"She's an idiot." Davies says. He slides closer, weapon steady. He edges close to Dean's body, close enough that the edge of his boot steps into the pool of blood beneath him. Castiel's teeth set, a deep edge of panic washing through him. _Leave him alone. Don't touch him._

"What are you doing here, Davies?" Andrew's voice is lacking patience.

Davies glances at Castiel. "I could ask you the same bloody question! We're meant to protect the public, not _shoot_ them. The caulistiles...our job is to hunt the evil in this world, Andrew, not _cause_ it!"

Andrew pulls his gun out, and Davies stops his advancement forward. "We did what we had to. The Men of Letters always does. You _know_ this."

Castiel shifts, his hand beginning to tremble. He doesn't have the strength to keep gripping the sword. He thinks he might tip over.

"There has to be a better way. What we've done…" Davies looks faintly nauseous. But his eyes harden, and his hand tightens around his handgun. "So you can either join us, or we'll stop you." His head jerks a fraction to those standing behind him. "This can't happen again. This _won't_ happen again."

Andrew's eyes slide towards the bodies. It settles on Dean's. Slowly, ever so slowly, it raises toward Davies. Then Andrew's finger draws away from the trigger, and he drops his weapon. It lands with a clatter on the tile, and Castiel flinches away from the sound.

Davies nods once.

Castiel closes his eyes and breathes out very soft and quiet.

His body feels like it's wavering, and he blinks his eyes open. The Men of Letters are slowly advancing forward, looking through the bodies, taking weapons from their attackers. His skin is tight from distrust, and he wants to scream, but the fight is over, and he has to accept this now. His eyes land on the Winchesters, and something heavy crawls into the small space beside his vessel's heart.

Ezekiel's hand touches his arm, and Castiel draws back a little. He didn't see him move. Maybe he wasn't paying enough attention to it. The angel's face is tipped with sympathy. "Castiel, we can help you. Let us heal these humans."

_You say that like I could stop you if I tried._

Castiel sags in the grip despite himself. "Please, I can't…"

Ezekiel looks very old as he sighs, "You will. You're healing. You are not the only angel looking after humanity, brother."

Castiel feels a surge of...something wash through him. Relief? Gratitude? "You...thank you." He whispers.

Ezekiel nods, turning to him. "In return for your Winchesters, we want heaven's location."

"Yes," Castiel blurts.

Ezekiel nods once more, but this time it's not toward him. Ikoria kneels beside Dean and rests two fingers on his forehead. Her eyes glow white. Castiel almost falls over in his haste to meet them.

000o000

Dean inhales. He chokes on the oxygen as he grasps for it with aching lungs, a headache throbbing behind his eyes, burning lancing pain through his entire body. He shudders as phantom pains ache along his shoulders. His back.

Bullets.

Sam. Cas. The sniper. _Holy—_

Dean throws himself upward and nearly falls back to the earth as his head aches so sharply he's afraid it's going to dislocate from his neck. Strong hands grab at his shoulders and yank him forward. For a moment, Dean thinks it's Sam, but the shoulder his face is smashed against smells faintly of blood and burned toast. Cas.

The angel's hands grip against his spine as if afraid that if he lets go, Dean's going to crumble apart. Weak, exhausted, and unable to do much more than make a slight sound of confusion, Dean doesn't fight the embrace.

"Cas," he mutters into cloth when he can talk again, breathing still stiff and painful, "what…?"

"You're okay," Cas says in response, hand gripping at the back of his skull for a moment. As if this should be Dean's primary concern. "You're okay. I fixed it. You're fine."

What? _What_ did he fix?

Dean blinks. "I don't…?"

There's a sharp, gasping inhale behind him and Dean's body locks up a fraction, realizing that it's Sam's voice. His brother coughs sharply behind him, panting, and Dean wrestles with Cas's endless arms for a moment before he can twist around to see his sibling rolling to his side, hand wrapped around his stomach, looking like he's about to vomit. Cas's arms don't let him go. _Won't_ let him.

Ezekiel rises to his full height from his previous kneel, taking a step away from Sam. The other angels are surrounding him, and Ezekiel looks toward Cas. He says something in Enochian and Cas nods once, voice filled with relief as he answers in the same tongue.

Dean manages to catch one phrase in a litany of them: _thank you._

The angels share a glance, then walk off until they've exited Dean's line of sight. Which given the current condition of his head, isn't that far. He blinks several times, trying to clear blurred vision.

They're still in the airport, but it's lacking in the way of traffic. There's a few people in suits, and others sitting up, looking weak and just as confused as he feels. He remembers them falling beside him, dead, and feels a sense of nausea and relief at their life. Dean's eyes close for a moment as the image of his nightmare winks as an after image across the scene. He breathes out a little harder, and feels Cas's grip, if possible, tighten.

It smells like decay, blood and vomit. His mouth tastes like ash.

People are crying, some shouting, trying to demand answers through heavy cusses and panic. All of them were dead. All...Dean thinks about the pain of the bullets burning through his skin, sharp and _wrong_ echoes in his skin, and Dean finds himself tightening his grip on Cas's forearm. He wasn't aware he'd started gripping it.

_I think..._ he starts, almost dazed. He feels far away from his body. Like an observer, watching with disinterest what happens to the prison of flesh. _I think I died._

_Cockroach,_ Crowley's voice snears in the back of his mind. Dean's hands flex. The sense of _wrong_ suffocating him makes him want to start scratching at his skin. Or scream. Everything feels slightly disjointed. The way it always does after grace has been stuffed inside of him to fix things.

He feels color drain from his face. They killed him. They actually…

"Cas." Dean lifts his eyes up frantically, trying to spot the angel's, but he refuses to meet Dean's gaze. _What did you do?_ Dean wonders with dawning horror. _What did you_ do? Deals to bring back the dead always come with a backlash the size of Texas. Why would he do that? Why would he put his freakin' neck out on the line—

"They just wanted heaven's location," Cas says, as if reading his thoughts. Dean's brow furrows.

"Why—?"

Sam heaves behind him, spitting up something that's almost pink. His hands are clawing at his chest and he looks both terrified and accepting. Cas squeezes his shoulder, then lets him go and slips quickly between them, grabbing at Sam's shoulder. He murmurs a few things too low for Dean to hear over the growing sound of the people.

Sam says something back, and Cas helps him sit up. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Sam's hazel wash with the relief Dean knows must be mimicked in his own.

_Oh, thank God._ He's okay. Cas is okay.

They're fine. It's fine. It's…

_Cockroach._

Dean drops onto one elbow when his stomach muscles refuse to do anything beyond offer a weak mewl in protest. He pants, wanting to talk to Sam, wanting to draw answers out of Cas. He has to check on Sam. Has to see where Garth went, and figure out who all these people are. And. What happened to the sniper. That would...that one's on the agenda as well.

Dean swallows thickly, looking around. He spots Bevell being attended to a few feet away from him and _realizes._

_Son of—_

Anger surges through him, cold in its intensity, but strength-giving. He manages to keep going on weakened muscles, getting to his feet. He takes a shaky step toward the woman, and that's about as far as he gets. A hand wraps around his bicep, and Dean turns his head sharply to see that it's some sort of agent. Dark hair, soulful eyes.

"Mr. Winchester, before you run off on your casade, might I suggest we talk first?" he asks, voice even. He's not short, but not tall enough to top Dean, either. But he also has complete muscle control and isn't wavering on his feet. Dean couldn't take him. Not now.

Dean snorts, yanking his arm away. His mouth is dry. "Why would I want to do that?"

Soulful Eyes stares at him, hard, for a moment. The intensity makes something in Dean shudder away. "Because I'm the reason you're alive. You, your brother, and your angel. Even your werewolf."

Garth. Dean allows himself to slump with relief. They haven't killed another hunter. Garth gets to go home. Bess gets to meet him there. Dean casts his eyes up, away from the man, searching briefly for the hunter. The mostly empty airport is milling with Men of Letters, but Dean can't see any actual police or law enforcement.

He spots Garth's head after a moment, leaning against a wall nearby and watching them while speaking into a phone. He's pale, listing a fraction, but alive and _not dead._ Garth tips his head in some acknowledgement to him. Then he returns his attention to the phone. If Dean had to guess who the caller was, he'd say Bess.

Dean allows his eyes to return to Soulful Eyes, gaze hard. The man straightens, as if trying to rise up to meet him. "Yeah. Right. And your organization suddenly grew a conscious, when exactly?" Dean snaps.

Soulful Eyes tries to hide a wince, but isn't completely successful. Dean allows himself a moment of savage satisfaction. "Mr. Winchester," the man sighs, "I know our methods may not be conventional, but we did the most humanitarian things we could at the time."

_Humanitarian thing…_

_So Cas's wings. That was humanitarian. And the demon blood._

Dean's punch is without much force, but it still catches Soulful Eyes in the face. "No. You didn't. You nearly _killed_ my brother, you took my best friend's wings, then, if that wasn't icing on the cake for you, you just _shot_ a bunch of civilians." He gestures toward the airport building. The people starting to get up. Someone should call an ambulance, Dean thinks belatedly.

Soulful Eyes's jaw jumps, and he touches at his cheek. For a moment, Dean braces himself for yelling, but all the man says is, "I know" very quietly. Dean stares at him, suspicious. Soulful Eyes releases a slow breath. "Look. I'm not going to pretend that we're not at fault here. But it could have been much worse. This isn't what the Men of Letters was supposed to do. We were created to protect the public."

Dean feels his eyebrows lift, a tired imitation of doubt.

"And the mass shooting served, uh, what purpose for that?" Sam appears at his elbow, and Cas's hand grips his shoulder. Dean hadn't even realized he was listing until Cas steadies him. He blinks several times, allowing himself to absorb strength from the two of them in the quiet of this moment.

_I'm not dying,_ he thinks with force, _you can stop._ But even though Cas _could,_ Dean is relieved he isn't.

"It was a mistake." Soulful Eyes tries.

"People were _dead."_ Sam says tonelessly. His arms cross over his chest, expression flattening out. "One of your agents was possessed by the _Devil,_ and none of you even noticed. I think that says plenty about your organization."

Dean's teeth set. Devil's still out there. Still vessel shopping. They don't know where he is, and Dean doesn't know what to do about it, so he shoves it deep into his psyche, locking it into a box that's already overflowing with things he'd rather not think about.

Soulful Eyes grimaces. "Ketch has always been a loose cannon. We didn't even know it happened until he was released. Bevell demanded your death and now we're here. I don't...we'll handle this. I promise. We'll even provide a chopper to get you back to the colonies."

Dean's stomach seizes with irrational, familiar terror. His fingers clench. Not flying, _anything_ but flying. And not by _them._ He wouldn't trust them to keep a rock alive.

"No." Sam says. "No, we're good. We'll swim if we have to."

Amen.

"But, I—" Soulful Eyes tries.

Cas takes a step forward, slipping between himself and Sam with ease. He gets into Soulful Eyes's personal space and says lowly, "Let me make one thing clear to you: _we don't want your help._ If you or your organization gets close to the Winchesters again, the agony you suffer will be unimaginable."

Dean shares a glance with his sibling. Sam's lips press together, and Dean pushes his tongue against the back of his teeth. He catches Garth's eye and nods toward the exit, resting a gentle hand on Cas's shoulder.

Cas glances back at him.

"Cas, c'mon," Dean says quietly. "Just leave it, okay? Let's go home."

Cas casts one more dirty look toward the agent before nodding and taking steps forward. His clothing is tattered and his hands bloodstained, but Dean can feel the aura of his grace as he steps close, the warmth and otherworldliness of it. Dean looks at his brother, and the approaching Garth.

They step toward the shattered glass doors, over the crunching glass, and no one stops them before they exit.

The first breath of air that Dean breathes in is deep and long. He closes his eyes, feeling relief settle somewhere deep inside of his body. Together, they take their first steps toward freedom, away from this nightmare, toward _home._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Power outage
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. For more of my Supernatural stories, I made a different account. Find other stories [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iaiunitas/works) ('cause I accidently got waaay more addicted to the series than I thought I would.) 
> 
> Thanks so much for your support and encouragement. Until the next story! :D
> 
> -GalaxyThreads


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